Friday, September 2, 2005

idée volée

An ear to the wall, a wiretap on the telephone, subminiature cameras switched on, film rolling. Intelligence trickles down, someone is always listening. Sousveillance sees one participant in a group gathering information, stockpiling data secreted from the bunch, no piece of datum too difficult to find. Like common garden slugs, we all leave slimy trails behind us.

A dash of research, a little sleuthing, shadowing, some outright robbery. It's like this that you come to put together your plans. It's a game of disguise and deception. Skulduggery and dirty pool. You say that you'd take an open and honest fistfight any day over the deceit and dissimulation of backroom politics, but when darkness falls, you're the first with a dagger in hand. Those fingers itching. Eyes searching the inky recesses. Prowling for a victim.

Hear that static on your telephone? See the way that long, black Cadillac deVille slides slowly around the corner? Too many sneaking glances from behind newspapers. Shapeless shadows following you in the night, footsteps from men, unseen. Unscrupulous behaviour breeds paranoia. Or maybe not. It's possible that being in on the action makes you more aware, increasingly perceptive, alert to the subversive activity around you. Or perhaps it's mere delusion.

I'm those whispers from behind hands, concealing treacherous lips. I'm the slight clicking of a camera, its lens opening and closing in the fraction of a second. I'm the fleeting images dashing through your peripheral vision. I'm all around, underneath, and inside you - and everything you do.

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