Jesus! It’s a fucking cross – neon against the night: “A last entoptic patterning” alright. Nothing is hidden, nothing is meant. “People you need they all seem . . .” Vaguely distorted.
So this is where dawn in Broadstairs leads to. So this is why Sarah never came. So this is David Cameron’s religion. So this is the pattern made by the bones of the children he barbecued. So this suddenly appears out of nothing.
Never, in a sense, forget this – our need, you must admit, is for a believable sign, whatever of. The best ones shine in the sky: the Labarum, the Sun in Splendour. I’d worship Richard III any time – didn’t he kill a lot of aristocrats? I’d worship sundogs over Harlow. This world is changed by them.
What do we gain? Whatever we want. It’s coming to us, don’t you see the blueshift? The constellation wants to crash & involve. Our eyes will burn out unless we open them.
“The summer sun.” Disordered? We know what it means & promises, like a long guitar break in the background. Time to dance out into the summer storms – there is a hill to climb, a home to return to. Always a good time to rebuild – now, when the lights tell us.