Christmas time in my native town, streets are dark and wet.
Shopkeepers took over long ago. Real estate developers helped them.
Only pedestrians walk their streets. I feel odd on my bicycle.
Shops sell things that I don’t need.
Some shops died and never got replaced.
No doomsday feelings are admitted.
Megaphones appeared in trees and street lamps.
They transmit songs in both directions.
There is nothing special about those songs;
FM radio transmits them all the time,
young people who try to look like models or pop stars
sing them in talent shows on TV.
I imagine a different type of melody,
like the one on this tape.
Slow evolving ambient that works like a virus, or a gas.
People will slow down, but keep moving.
They will walk so slow that you hardly notice that they move at all.
The street becomes liquid. The shops become liquid.
Everything around the pedestrians blurs,
like a reflection blurs in rippling water.
My native town becomes one big raindrop.
It falls.
The composer of the infinite suite resides in Stockholm,
capital of the country of dark detective series.
Everything is dark in Sweden.
The composer lies on his bed.
It is good to feel like you’re dying,
because that is where bliss hides.
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