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This was nothing like Tokyo, where the past, all that remained of it, was nurtured with a nervous care. History there had become a quantity, a rare thing, parceled out by government and preserved by law and corporate funding. Here it seemed the very fabric of things, as if the city were a single growth of stone and brick, uncounted strata of message and meaning, age upon age, generated over the centuries to the dictates of some now-all-but-unreadable DNA of commerce and empire.
The doctors at the clinic had used chemical pliers to pry the addiction away from receptor sites in her brain.
She walked on, comforted by the surf, by the one perpetual moment of beach-time, the now-and-always of it.
About the only thing to like about Florida was drugs, which were easy to come by and cheap and mostly industrial strength. Sometimes she imagined the bleach smell was the smell of a million dope labs cooking some unthinkable cocktail, all those molecules thrashing their kinky little tails, hot for destiny and the street.
He couldn’t remember when he hadn’t been able to remember, but sometimes he almost could.
“Have you ever considered the relationship of clinical paranoia to the phenomenon of religious conversion?”
It was what Eddy called an art crowd, people who had some money and dressed sort of like they didn’t, except their clothes fit right and you knew they’d bought them new.
But did it wake, Kumiko wondered, when the alley was empty? Did its laser vision scan the silent fall of midnight snow?
The world hadn’t ever had so many moving parts or so few labels.
