The Fragile

Last weekend my girlfriend and I sat at an intersection on Division. For the first time, we noticed a rusty bike chained up by the concrete wall of the underpass. It was adorned with fake flowers and a name and the words "She heard everyday sounds in music."

That shrine was a sad, otherworldly thing. It happened that we listened to "Distant Lights" from Burial, and I think that I finally figured it out (thank God for fragile hungover states).

For me the only place where such decayed, apocalyptic beauty is in abundance is when you are wandering the Burning Man playa at 3am, haunted by time travelers from the future (or are they spirits of those who will die in some irradiated, barren desert of tomorrow?). And also in archaic dream tunnels lit by dirty fluorescent lights, unambiguous archways to the Underworld. The Unconscious and the dead share a language, and speak in poignant symbols.