Spaces are haunted by hallucinations upon entering the antipode of the mind on a Friday afternoon before the laboring part of humanity answered the last phone call and wiped the last table – Berliners roam houses of daytime speed on the Lane of Bricks, brakes activate on Barclays bicycles parking their wheels opposite shaved heads, cigarette smoke, glints of red leaving imprints on white porcelain cups put on hold as lips articulate aphorisms in French, wheels stop turning, foreheads are burning, sweating off the third cup of coffee, preparing the body for a fourth one, high heels, platforms, low forms, stilettos and socks crowd around the speed engine.
Ten embellished fingers operate the mechanism steaming financial profit! Payment in steel currency makes the engineer color his hair in pink oblivion, religion hangs dangling from his neck in the form of a crucifix, a black tear is tattooed on his cheek, the clown without punch lines to deliver cries tears of black ink, a trademark for illy’s coffee, steamed out of a collective imagination brainstorming what could potentially be capitalistic ideas of grand magnitude in a stuffy office in a Rockefeller owned New York building has moved quietly into a coffeehouse where the speed engine is neatly hidden in a hallucinative haze.
