A traveler came to the old capital with his vintage camera that had an accordion lens and shot large format film. There was a famous wall there where citizens would glue or pin up their posters, grievances, unpublished novels, poems, love letters, accusations, vindictive and compromising drawings of old lovers, manifestoes, gossip, lies, public service announcements, censored news, questionable ads for obscure medicines, alternative history and sometimes real history. There was little worth reading. At last he came to a section painted with chalkboard paint and covered with an enigmatic poem in white chalk that read: #noitisnt #notheycant #notheywont #noyouarent
They are not thieves, though they can be said to thieve. To thieve and to war without scars, without possessing. They will come. In the crepuscular time, in the tattooed, blue twilight they will come, with their hands filled with stars, planets and sands they will come, their shadows upon the earth like the blades of ancient scythes. Mountains disperse; clouds become comets; the city rearranges itself into new iron labyrinths of sighs from the whispering acacia and the secretive bosom . It may be that your white bedroll will melt into the black water of time; perhaps your black automobile will transfigure into white laundry. In the red morning, the blood orange of a deplorable sun will light the faceless statues of all that survives.