The Somnambule's Crime

The Labyrinth Of Industry Touched

By Small Feathered Gloves

A bird is often useless like a constellation entirely pre-capitalist. One prefers full-flavored diamonds 

and a circus bicycle leaning against a small Japanese shrub which – together –  recall to us a frozen blue 

petticoat moving fitfully through the night sky leafless yet easily turned away from. All the owners stroll 

out upon the balcony holding pink bells inside yellow jars as a line of girlish trains fill the caverns beneath 

a pagoda. A desk lamp is glimpsed through the water that covers Berlin and the moon’s rays are strips of 

veal or seventeen moths gathering about a smoldering accordion.

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