We in the City in the City. Of London. Of Lud. My boys are cutting-edge Luddites. Contradictions don’t matter that much, you know. They show a rich soul. “Everybody out!” I announce on the sand, and my men follow me, briefcases in hand, like little Nazis flicking their eyes overhead to look for the RAF, to look for information on the weather, the day, the time and place, this disaster coming, part of their mental framework, for a period of 36 hours to destruction, and in the infinite life of history, eternal. On the train the British people show us two fingers, and I practice my best stoneface, Stoneface Killa, Stonewall Jackson, defending the civil war within the peace within the civil war, within the peace, within a civil war, swirling round the sun. Information as a system—an ecosystem—depends on complexity, rubber bands of rhythm to defend the system against outlier threats, to remain a living thing, this pool of life, we know, and thus the biggest fish must be eaten by the small. He takes up too much space. Bombs are old fashioned but they worked on 9-11. The rigor of the pull of flame. “Go, go!” I tell my boys at Piccadilly and they swarm like ants on legs, moving, moving to the buses, to head into more medieval districts, under the moon, the sky falling towards us…I am only a man but what a feeling, eh? Worth writing about. I don’t care how you judge me. Well, I do. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. Judge me well. I am yours. I laugh at you. I will burn these men, and give you your freedom. For an hour. For a day. A week. A month, even. What can you do with a month of freedom? Information as a system of complexities also mirrors the arc of this universe, moving towards more madness, more separation, and more unity, more of everything absurd and painful, beautiful strange and unheard of, unclassifiable, rich, mellifluous, and unafraid, I am not a London man but this is the genius of London, to know what the
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