The Siberian desert is the first shock: that it’s a desert, green,

                        inhabited, malleable.

Now there is a shot of a transport ship: we become cinematic. 
Talk then about consumption, thinghood itself as a battleground. We are returning to

                     the beginning. Remember the Alamo, once more, with laurels. 
                                 We lost contact with the boss some time ago. I would not expect

                     too much here if I were        
you. The colonel is a member of the Brezhnev faction, and I want

                                              to overthrow the government.
      You only have a week, and if it’s not too much to ask for one more infirmity, the

                                                                             universe is the father of modern sniping.
                                  You were, of course, not born. You were instead

borne by another body; we all were I suppose. Playing these two roles doesn’t leave

                                                          much time for sleep.
                      We can be clear then: we are in the Cold War, or

                we are watching it, you and I, playing with our bears, American or otherwise.
What we do here is history, what we have conceptualised here possible because of what

                they did, and the technology they left us.
The End dies halfway through,

though, and he has lasted a century. 
                                    What are we to do after

                                    the end of the

                                    short century depicted

                                    and

                                    the birth – you yourself

                                    are symptomatic here –

                                    of another long one.