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by Tom Thompson
agile1 founderings and piecemeal2 flotations. The crowd constitutes a gravitational field that slaps back at the ground, numbed3 and maddened by ground‘s constant suckling. The crowd embodies4 a depression in fabric5 more than an attraction. Its angled, arteried, fleet fantasias of need sway in a loopy, bobbing dance without strings6. It‘s this sense of movement the organism uses to believe in its own existence, the palpable presence of an intangible parade, uncertain planetary marches, a supernumerary of stars. In its mania7 for artifice8 the crowd has sewn the sky with these shiny extras. Embodied9 adoration10, they snap the organism shut before tickling11 it open again with reedy gestures. Breathe. The crowd‘s louche body clings and parts in place, an ovation12 rigid13 and adrift, alive. It is the sea that sweeps the sea. Broom tight with inner bickering14. how the crowd hates the crowd. Outwardly. It admits you or me as an enormous lidless eye admits glittering beams. Endless watching, washing us in. The crowd‘s object, its point, is always vanishing into its own mass. It is a sea with no concern for us, even as it scores. 点击收听单词发音
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