...As we descend down into the city, which is under the level of the sea, the moon whirls strangely behind our backs, our shadows are taller than our souls now...it was said that the city name was Utopia: the word whistled sibilant in the lips of the clairvoyant, the clairvoyant of the outlaw.
We, the outlaw people, we needed to find a city of refuge, like the cities of refuge of the ancient Israel: the night's short here: as our descent goes ahead and [down] and so turns up the Sun, and so its respective day. Here we are at the gates of Motorway city: Utopia.
The atmosphere of the dome is a little ruined, the streets resemble the old streets of Canaan: the excessively dry air keeps the land all cracked and the yellow dust covers irremissibly the miserable and badly made sidewalks; 400 metres ahead there is a huge reservoir for metallic waste and broken cars, which lie one over another in a chaotic pile of twisted steel.
At this stage I notice that the Sun is not one: there are two, twin Suns shining in the white sky; their burning luminosity almost doesn't allow to see: everyone has to wear black spectacles that are not enough to diminish the impossible brightness.
On an unexpected stage, as ample as ruined, and that is settled exactly behind the metals' cumulation, 5 warrior-bards jump over its tatty-wooden floor, to entertain a while the desperadoes of the 30 different gens or clanns Utopia city is populated with: the 5 sonic warriors who call themselves 'The Dream Workers'.
They play their strange instruments under two every time more ardent Suns: their legs get enlarged like octopuses of destiny: stolen cans of beer are thrown, empty, to the stage like a blinding-metallic rain: someone recites a pamphlet on through a silvery megaphone, a whistle sounds shattering the sky in 1008 pieces: the noise is unbearable.
And the pamphlet says:
"The art is free, the art is liberation: do not panic. This is the sonic attack of our social alliance; beyond the gates of the city everything's decadence for us to pirate it: our art is our life itself; reflex and essence, and it's ours and ourselves, to fake it not.
They tried to silence us, and though they outnumbered us, we were stronger and could sürvive to keep our essence alive. We don't need their hypocritical laws anymore in our perfect communist society, and they are ours for the taking now, our prey; because they don't compute anymore: we hacked their sÿstem, right? Which collapsed into a cone of shadows.
Our ärt is us, freedom and liberation for the mind; because the art it's frêë."
The echo of these last vocables floats adrift in a wind that comes from Saturn, god of the dark; the echo of these last vocables runs through the back brain.
This is our descent into Motorway city, the dome that cannot be named; and as the vertigo of the Suns swirls hysterically in an orange sky, flying toward their obscure tomb, the night-Nyx; we keep going on, into the entrails of Motorway city/Utopia, toward its darkest corners, that are ours now, that are us now.
Maybe one day, the utopia of Utopia will reach the whole society: a dangerous dream to think about, a total madness out of control, a subversion of the social status quo as Jesus formulated it, the absolute violence into a total war, a war of classes, a place where everything will be faïr: that so-called happy world of Aristotle; it was Aristotle? Huxley, that is, Huxleya will be called our new-subverted world; yeah, that is.
...As our descent into the prohibited city gets dangerously profound, toward its darkest zones...
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