If that episode made no sense it’s because I was lip-synching to your mixed tape on my way to the dump, because I’m putting everything on my credit cards now – my credit card bills for a start, these stolen moments, these black bags full of the life I’ve thrown out.
The Republic of Precisely Nowhere, its dismal fireworks and half-hearted anthem: it’s no way to run a country, and yet I do, hauling any old handkerchief up the flagpole and saluting, tears in my eyes.
When the tape gets to the end it switches over, that’s understood. I tap on the wheel and whistle along.
So if I appear unable to concentrate it’ll be because I’m trying too hard.
There is scarcely a journey I have not taken in search of the ideal point of departure. Correct me unless I’m wrong: is this it? Only you will know, all-generous one, and only you will refuse to say.
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