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     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$ss$$                      "Motion"
     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$                    by Obscure Images/cDc
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     $$  $$ "TssT" "TssT"

	The man walked out of the tattoo parlor with a pelt full of new
 ink.  The night was cold, chill bleeding through the cheap leather jacket
 like the memory of his mother.  After walking three blocks he turned into
 a doorway and pounded on the metal door steadily until the door opened.  
 Words were exchanged and he walked into the warehouse and rode the
 freight elevator to the loft space that he slept in.

	In the morning, or what passed for it, he woke to the sound of a
 speech coming from the floor below.  "Anarchy is not about bomb throwing,
 destruction or violence towards others.  Anarchy is a stateless
 socialism, a net of autonomous individuals supporting each other," said
 the voice.  He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.  The speech was
 the same all the time, the price paid for being able to live in this
 place.

	The bandage came off with ease and the skin was slightly puckered
 where the needles punctured the skin.  The new image underneath the skin
 was the second price of living amongst the free people in this place.  
 The small black flag was a symbol of his commitment to freedom and
 responsibility.

	Out in the daylight, he sees another group of people walking
 toward the warehouse, their eyes bright with the Idea.  None of them
 could possibly know what they were walking into, blinded with hope and
 desire, he thought as he turned away.  The black flag was supposed to be
 a negation of all flags, a call for the dissolution of all states.  To
 most everyone else black flag is something used to kill pests.

	He waited at the end of the street at the bus stop, thinking.  
 They didn't understand the implications of true freedom.  Freedom can
 only come from the active negation of the tyranny of consciousness, with
 its hidden agendas and biological imperatives.  In the end, freedom can
 only come to those who have no use for it.  For everyone else there is
 always the motion of instinct and habit under the control of natural law.

	He was shaken from his reverie by the hiss of the bus' air brakes.  
 He got on, put the coins in the slot, and sat at the back.  He watched
 the crowds through the windows, quietly amused by the unconscious
 patterns made by unknowing people in their cosmic machine.  I'm part of
 the machine too, he thought as people came and went.

	That night, in his corner of the loft, he smiled in his sleep.

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 [ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu  #1019, BY OBSCURE IMAGES - 1/30/00 ]