don't really have to be there for that
at one point the eyes take off from the page and to the street falling upon conversation and letting it slide past seems the best coursing. muttering something about the rights of man, not life, but man, a very particular formation of molecules. peculiar rights of arrangement. yindi! bungool! djama! mooca! come here! the father stage is ready to roll with buggy singing along arnhem hmv. a little world of secret nods and handshakes rambles down the road. organic leavened waftings cross the street with guitar janglings.