x found each other at an art fair, which they enjoyed little of.
Time went by, x became X,
becoming obsessed with well ok we have to do something
X met a blue dreamer and two monies and everything became a little faster.
Time flashed in yellow and red. Pushed into dusty shelves with space closures and lost records,
companionship and artist groups left behind.
Time helped imagine a pipedream
X struggled to make it into a real story.
Time insisted on staying teleological.
“A writer is the conscience of society…a public intellectual.” said Singapore Unbound.
“something about the politics of real-time,” said one to another.
“Ok I get it now,” said no one.
“Reference Duchamp one more time I dare you.” said the writer.
“Hey sorry I got 9 serious questions to answer before I sleep tonight! Bye!” said a friend.
“Do you have a license to perform here?” a stranger asked.
It’s a moon, it’s a year – we mustn’t let inertia win.
The show must go on
At Ground Zero we’re uncertain about directions, but we hope you’re here for a pleasant stay.
Part One: Ground Zero