In the August of 1999 Marion Frua said: The moon set off, slowly
devouring the sun

The images have gone missing: said Ann Callis. Someone was heard, playing the violin, through the black hole of a negative shadows fell from things

A woman with a child in her arms paled visibly, a Madonna rocking in the ecstasy of a Dance Macabre

Florio, Xsaver and Franz were among the last to escape that illusion. They still recall the moment when the curves of the centuries came apart

Said Salvador Dali, If we knew what anti-matter was, we could portray angels

Faithful to tradition, printers’ wives crush sheets of newspaper flat beneath their feet. From afar they call to mind a strange field, transected by the characters of an unknown script

Pictured just before death, gallant portraitists as though they see before them confused copy of Eden. In silence they passed over embittered evenings round the Steam Mill, the intimate neighbourhood of McDonald and the Buddha mascot

J’s autobiography carefully describes the harlequin dolls of clowns: The light of the entire nineteenth century glitters in their eyes of metal

Alexander Doda wanted to know how the nature of a fallen demon quickened. He saw it in the damp hollows behind pulled-away tiles, on dank domestic stairways suffused with the reek of sentimental attraction

The intentions of Marlowe and his heirs are known too by the basket-carriers from Franz-Josef-Ring 3 when they speak of last things and human souls as though telling of old bicycles and foggy paths along a river