and on a table of chrome they pushed a needle into you – loaded with rays of light it made you fly – fly away from your province, along the Northern Canal, over the Revolving Sea, Satchel City and the long line of islands from your skinnylegged youth. This was unequaled – this flying – slashing through the sky – falling – rising – backwards and stretched like a pen to the word: THUD! Yes, you know this neighbourhood, these bashful houses, intimidated by the bookhawkers that come to sell Cook or Vasco Da Gama – you peek over the gutter, spit in the pool, the blue fire shines, the pipes whizz, the whole world can go to hell – thus they found you, on the roof, still smelling of the poison berries