There is a window to my right through which I look out over urban gardens with laundry lines blowing in the breeze. I can hear the sound of birds and the gentle tapping of my fingers at the keyboard. Differences in directions and speeds converge momentarily into braided streams, a temporary collocation. Suspended in the turbulence we find millions of particles. Other particles are on parallel trajectories.
Location is always forever transient and wandering.
Et tout le reste est literature. The question of localization is quite puzzling to me. I believe I understand- its intentions, but I can not help thinking that it relies entirely on a act of faith. In the net we are very close. Maybe closer than ever, in the intimacy of the act of writing, sketching, almost without anything in between.