On this unending train, I do not leave either trace or trail, progressing across the Australian landscape. This is the silent visitation of the strange, something needing theorization, as it is characteristic of modern life. Forget Kristeva's romanticism, Simmel here - I'm talking about the deep, almost random, loss of memory built into the land, into the recordings of journeys taken every minute. I'm talking about complete and utter disappearance.

For example, that bicyclist I have seen in the distance, recognition of the pure and complete body that drives the framework - but at such a distance, the face unrecognizable, nothing more to be seen or said.

These moments of mind and organism constantly passed, unsurpassed.

Whose legs are those just so visible behind the automobile parked by the curb in front of the milk bar at the end of the road?* Just as the face might appear, there is always some obstacle - the speed of the train, an inappropriate intervention on the part of a large truck, effacing the face in a fashion one might take as absolute.

Whose legs are those do not recognize a question mark.
 

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*Prepositions! Phrases!