Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

and we cling to a fear in order to overcome and carry on with our bones and so much rubbish to appear then to somebody else in the evening, in the dark, at the end of an alley, This, the dull horror of Mr. Anywhere (and ask me whether I hate promises). The small world is held together by the scaffolding of transport timetables, their connections and their routes precise in their details, the omniscience of satellite networks, of media: it doesn’t need a catastrophe, it takes very little, a small human error or even less to unroll kilometres into metres to bring back the ancient fury of the submultiple in steps and seconds (and ask me whether I hate promises). Little is left of all that was built: only the permanent building site, the style, (I don’t mean the products, now only flattened drink cans, single-dose sachets of ketchup, outlive glacial erosion). The sense of making is over,

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