Half past Noon obliterates itself in favor of quarter to none. We are stranded in the middle of this indecipherable lucifer-ish hour which indicates neither the imminent necessity of dawn nor the continuous perseverance of night. Our weary eyes are fixed with hazy gazes, our
'We're all just out there, somewhere, waiting to /re/happen'
Scribble /slightly purified/
Three out of four. Numerals taking charge of verbs, adjectives, adverbs, their syntactic combinations and unsystematically anti-semantic disjunctions. Then a sudden explosiveness of succulency overthrows them all without the slightest throe of hesitation, conscience or
‘The artist, you see, must travel backwards in time. To become, once again, a child of dreams.’
Welcome to the second chapter of prequelo-sequelling adventures in Noonland! Last time we embarked on a delicious temporal escapade with Alice Liddell and Celia Hobart to 1998 and