Almost nine years now since those first rumblings, all those evenings, you read, and what has changed, what really. That avant-garde so-called, was it really ever anything other than a way of wasting time? In some sense a way of legitimizing what otherwise led, we know all too well, only to one’s haunting the back streets, a visit to bedlam, or a sojourn behind bars? For far too long we have ghosted darkened stairwells, alleyways, some older, some not, all these cities, some larger, some not, and she to a greater degree than I. Nicotine, morphine, alcohol, cocaine, hashish, what tarnished haloes among all those brothers and sisters of low degree. All those damned, doomed, yet ultimately innocent souls, some admittedly scoundrels, not just a few simply petty thieves, but all of them, in as much as they were human, mostly good-hearted and deserving of grace. But as to changing, having changed, the world? We didn’t, he wrote, succeed in all that much save making a small amount of noise.

And failure.



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