May 21, 2011
There is always a knot on the back of his neck. Stretching over a ring of cold hard iron on the verge of a car crash. The cars are only a simulacra on the road, shaking neon outside Harvey Nichols on one side and the stonewashed government house behind withering trees on Ice Street. Thousands of people have marched down this street in the post-colonial days. Days spent in cages until they burst open in outcry, to be muted and erased by the raging red.
There is always a knot on the back of his neck. Stretching over a ring of cold hard iron on the verge of a car crash. The cars are only a simulacra on the road, shaking neon outside Harvey Nichols on one side and the stonewashed government house behind withering trees on Ice Street. Thousands of people have marched down this street in the post-colonial days. Days spent in cages until they burst open in outcry, to be muted and erased by the raging red.
He does not share the fury. All day he drives, past distorted faces and false glimpses of the city, to retreat to the place where time dissolves in twilight. The smell of coffee seeping through his silver blinds and broken drones. No one else would hear the music. His home is just that--his home.
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