Volume 4
Last Transmission From the Deep Halls…saying, once those outsiders get in your tortured halls … I’m saying we didn’t have command of the vast fictions of the day … The ship wasn’t, in the end, where those of us who lived there thought it was. We had already lost it in all senses of that word … All we knew of this place was the news … the decks are aware that--in the end--they can never know what, exactly, the plot was. It’s only silence after that. Back at the beginning there’s the tapping sound, like metal on stone … then the call signs, several of them, very amplified and confused … cries in the crawspaces … a cruel few words and then, “We no longer know which way to face.” The masts are still aware … What if the ship didn’t “fall”. What if nothing “fell”? Nothing was lost but existed just alongside everything else, fifty years later in the rubble by a pier at the flat end of nowhere … who could write this … everyone has a different story to sell … call signatures in fish, fresh chum, old silence: “We don’t know what to do. Everything is the alongside of something else.” … Minor players gesture helplessly … signals hard to make out in the chaos as the big conceptions go down … everyone desperate now.





















