...a deathly serenade...

conspiracies. Antonin spoke passionately about
nearly everything; it really had a sex to it;
fluctuating in the manner he spoke: smiling
ardently at an example of the uses of violence in
politics and then a scrunched-face explanation of
his views on Communism. And in a haunting way
Antonin would capture many other people, as
opposed to myself. I failed to fully buy into life’s
conspiracies stories. Though I often held that it
would give life such a collective energy: even
now, I think there’s something very romantic
about the theory that everything in the universe
is interconnected, whether it be evil or full of
virtue. In some ways I agree with certain ideas,
which abound to the central perception that
modern culture is at the hands of a numbing
quality... We would go in circles; Antonin would
usually suggest a time, sometimes someone else
would come along too. Discussions turned into
arguments, arguments turned into digressions,
melodramas turned into serious turns, and
eventually things became strange. Though I can’t
blame that entirely on him. I could always expect,
every three or four months—if I was not in the
same vicinity — for a message to arrive. And like
clockwork I had heard from a friend (Felicity)
just after B and Leila left, I read the message:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I didn’t want to write and mention what I think I
should, amongst other things. It hurts me to think it
slightly. Besides, what’s new? I moved from the squat
in East London to the one close to Brixton, Paolo’s
place? You know the one in the place that was a
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