Protocols of Surrender

Abstract

Now hear this.¹ It’s a train station, somewhere on the outskirts of Cairo, maybe even Durrell’s Alexandria.² I’m not exactly sure. But it’s a desert out there, beyond the edge of town. Bill Burroughs is slumped over on a rotting bench. Henry Miller stumbles by, drunk as ever. Burroughs is nodding out but still sapient. Deleuze, in the form of a crow, is perched on a rusted gutter, close enough to hear but far enough away to remain imperceptible. Bob Dylan looks on, wondering what to sing to these dudes, seeing as how they are one of him, and he of them.