For all those who can not achieve emancipation and autonomy, pull into the truck stop and relax. Once again, the machismo of a man s job, of moving on, of the smell of oil and hot rubber. Once again, a long stopover in a timeless space. Driving, with or without cargo, takes time, lost time. Second-hand gem tlichkeit, used by strangers, with traces not of our, but of my.
Time is a cogwheel.
We experience time only through the traces that it leaves behind. There we receive signals from the island toward which we are, regrettably, not underway. We are still living among the currents of the new, its concepts having long since come unmoored. We have no raft named Contained. If Just Merrit makes himself comfortable in his easy chair, that can mean nothing good for this epoch.