War is here. The hounds of war barking in the skies. I see their hellmouths gaping like a painted Japanese face on the beak of a fighter plane.
The roof is also a plane, a dimension that is, and the group of us are mathematical figures. We can all be described in terms of line and space. We are merely numbers in the spinning roulette wheel of collective European pain. Our lives are defined by the rules of a chaotic military game whose outcome is only negation, a vacuum, beyond zero.
We’re slaves on a banana plantation enjoying the alien fruits of our forced labour. The bananas sprouting without rhyme or reason from the building's crevices, from its closets, kitchen drawers, and windowpanes.
I’m here. Beneath me and in the surrounding city people are fleeing, yet I remain. Inertia. Entropy. Exodus. God is withdrawing his face.
Let me get a hold of myself. I’m daydreaming again. Yet, awakening to this cruel reality is throwing me into a psychic tailspin. My careless friend, don’t slip on that banana peel. Is this a silent comedy? Silent, yes. A whistle is all we will hear as a maelstrom of bombs rain down on us faster than any sonic shockwave.