Turquoise in the lee of the groyne, a white sheet where the sun is upon it. Turns out this is an unnamed paragraph, about nothing, written in a “hotel of real spies”. A trumpet in the shape of a boat. At first glance, it extruded the body language of convergence, then it became convenient, and then a commodity, and so it goes on, day after day, beginning after ending after beginning, persons and events and horizons in a blur. History turns into salt – to what purpose? We are never told. Even the electrics smells of fish. Surf spangles and dribbles, monstrously dressed. Cats come out in fearful places after the towers have fallen. Even the porpoises smell of electricity; would you credit it? Everyone’s at the edge right here; there is no centre! What porpoise? Drummers march past on Fish St, playing the usual rhythm that, we are assured, has not varied since 1066. Consumers of the Ancient State of Albion, awake!

(from Bardo. More from Bardo here)