Supermarket arch; tacky cloister of Our Mother of the Sacred Sales; everything 666% off – the Holy Order of the Poor, that hard-to-practice Regulation. Rattling vent. Resentful wrangle of cloud. Wherever you look, it’s Einstein or bacon rolls. A tiny bent man bows to me as he enters the public toilet; so small, so well-detailed; for a minute I don’t see Buddha, then –thank God! – I do. I don’t bow, but hold the door open, as befits a minion, and keep my mouth shut. Later, she asks for an interview. ‘I have been left behind.’ That’s all she will offer. What can she mean? We watch the rain digging its ditch. At last, more. ‘But I refuse, I won’t stay.’ This is getting interesting. A thread. A double place. A abyss to cross and recross. The Dramatic Mode. The notice on the windscreen says, ‘ Stop doing this. We are watching. This land is all ours.’ I know it’s not true. Banks own nothing. Not even themselves, or their sons and daughters. No form of speech. No music or gesture. They wait behind glass and steel for their screens to be breached.They are the wrong kind of emptiness.

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