\”\”Shoot,\” I said.\” – ib
I was hungry for words, the anarchist typography of dub, but my stomach had other ideas. I was waiting for one or other\’s finger to drop on the letters \”h-e-a-v-E\”, but even those few I still held out for were visibly asleep on the mouse. On the run from the burden of correspondence. Heavy, heavy manners. One bone after another. Jawbones. Trombones. Hambones. Eventually connecting with the bird-cage nesting cerebellum. Left and right hemisphere, hindbrain. That lowest part of the brainstem responsible for the art of breathing; the ebb and flow of digestive juices. Heavy manners. Hangovers. Alcohol. Narcotics. The humming bewilderment of sinsemilla, without seed. The entire world seeming for one second to inhale and sit on it, the news not even wholly bad, it is as if our collective bent is on convalescence between one foul atrocity and the next. There is a war going on, it is not the war we were taught we were waging, we are out of cigarettes but not yet out of skins.