Fennesz - Badminton Girl
The last of the new interns had run far far away, leaping over the hedge and across the stream to the bright green freedom of the forest, and beyond there to the mountains studded with the wrecks of old planes, the accidental ruins of the time before the time before. Huddled in the soft metal shelter of the relics, the interns rub their hands above an impromptu fire, lit no doubt when one of them shot a flare gun into a pile of paper, and shout to each other above the wind about their plans to live fresh lives without the strictures of any program, guide, or government, their eyes at wide aperture to take in every prospect, their voices garbled by desire, statements distorted by words formerly only thought and not spoken. I imagine the tales they told and tell each other, here and on the mountain, and I construct the diorama of their escape with the aid of mental condensation of thought and the manipulation of the flattened pulp of extinct trees, a scene of overjoy before the catastrophe, before the mountain battens down its hatches with its thick wind and snow blight, a fluttering of moths before the crackle of the lamplight. I put the box on its side and install the figures. We later take turns with the telescope, spying on their progress, those young dumb pioneers who know nothing of climbing, cold, ice, or how to build a fire, but yearn without saying to stand on the peak, they will walk through cold as thick and present as clear jello to their tombs at the top, where they’ll look down through the valley at us, gazing back up.[BUY Split Series #15]