Publisher's Synopsis
We plus you equals us.
We plus the old me and the old you equals totality. We were empty on our own. We are now one. We are a whole. We came together the moment the nucleus event occurred. We as the nucleus event as seen as an event horizon. We as the fading out, the disappearance, witnessed, and experienced. We are the inside and outside of it. We, us, as a whole.We were two different "people", that is how these things work. We are not up to scratch. We are here. We are there. We transmuted the us of before so we could then alter those around us - solely for personal, irrational, physics-altering, selfish "reasons", all so the me turned into the us, into the we, so we stood out better in society. We move as one. We moved as one. We are inflections of mirrored images slowed, sped up, layered, burnt into each other . We are the time-delay, the curls of vapour, beautiful colours unrecorded and unseen by human eyes, we are those colours, and we are also the witnesses of such colours. We are the cloudscape undulating out into the darkness of space. We are these things, and what that means is, that what is offered to us a comprehension-dilation fragment - presenting how our planet functions in the molasses of information and unreality that govern our universe, is merely unimagined; that of which is unimagined cannot exist as a certainty. We are a form of realism made unrealistic. We need you to sit at a fashionable desk and try and extract cubist compositions. We need you to go to your local fleapit cinema. Fleapit meaning an age-old staple of a local town. Many have them. Many do not. We want you to make a detour and visit this place. We know there is one. We know it is close. Geographically and emotionally. We need you to concede to our ushering. We want you to go to the neglected, occasionally accepted, but never supported or visited palace of old. Previously left to the local avant-garde artists and punk poet scenes; vomit still left where it landed and dried. A place where no film has been screened in the past few years, a grand theatre of old. We know this is true paradise. We know you like it. We know that perhaps the place is closed up. Shuttered. Boarded up. Left to its own demise. Falling into itself. Even the local shysters and street bumpers and snorters and slanderers merely cover under the balcony - conceal, sleep, hide, junk up, but they never transfer their filth beyond the balcony's perpetually left open facade. The old poster boxes are also lovingly wiped by the dirt bags; tiles smashed, up tilted, hastily out of a weird sense of propriety by the street sleepers, zombie walkers, whilst the rest is an open prison cell, littered with used needles, broken bottles, stubbed out roll-ups, and filthy sleeping bags in various stages of disintegration. We prod you. We guide you. We force you. We prod you. We force you. We goad you. We want you to follow us. - Extract from we + you = us
