Remedios and Transito discuss architecture

Remedios and Transito are slouching toward Bethlehem. They are both wearing torn jeans they found in the trash somewhere. The sky is grey. The air is grey. Crumbling buildings loom around them.

Transito says: Those towers look like dicks.
Remedios says: That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.
Transito says: Maybe so.

They walk on through the grey haze, stumbling over piles of brick and ash. It is springtime and the waste land blooms around them, mixing memory and desire. Transito smokes a cigarette.

Remedios says: All towers are the tower of Babel.
Transito says: Nothing.
Remedios says: And let us make a name
Transito says: Just.
Remedios says: Lest we be scattered abroad
Transito says: Fucking.
Remedios says: Upon the face of the earth
Transito says: Nothing.
Remedios says: These monuments still speak
Transito says: But all is already scattered and bare
Remedios says: Even in these times
Transito says: There is nothing to speak
Transito says: There is nothing to hear
Remedios says: Are you listening?
Transito says: I would not become a pillar of salt, to turn back on this dry land
Remedios says: Turning and turning in
Transito says: What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?
Remedios says: I saw some mold over there
Transito says: That doesn’t count.
Transito says: What roots clutch?
Remedios says: So you get no pleasure from life?
Transito says: I did not say that.


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