After the Town was formed on top of an underground lake, after the northeast cliff became the site of our disembodied, polyphonic singing, after the Chancellor purchased the Farmhouse, after the neighbouring island was established as a burial ground for our tender and hapless mayors, and after the Oracle assumed her stance, there was a list of questions about the Town that we took it upon ourselves to answer.
Why did this Town exist/
Where was it in time and space/
By what rules was it governed/
How did the Chancellor come to power/
What happened at his Farmhouse/
Why this need for subjugation/
What caused the Town’s collapse/
Ships still arrive at the docks and unload berries and seeds; surveyors tramp over the hills and knot orange tape around trees; the air shimmers with violet electricity and abandoned wifi networks:
atownlikeanyother
thistownlikenoother
getyourownfuckingwifi
icantstandmyselfwhenyoutouchme
13inchessssss
gnosticcontacthigh
ibecomeadelighttomyenemies
In a cluster of bluish shadows we stretch our legs and crack our necks, then we run like water through pine needles. Our thousands of eyes light on nothing that has not been ravaged. We could retreat into a collective vacancy. We could avoid coming into colour and sound.
Terror had formed us and power had held us in place, but we were prepared to relinquish our secrets and pass into allegory. In this record of the Town’s stories, you will feel our presence: the voice beneath each voice. Let us remain unseen. But let us be missed.