"art is a [potential] blueprint for [im]possibility..."

How might we utilise these unspent energies? These accumulating thirsts? Should we turn to crime? Posing as young dilettantes, should we insinuate ourselves into the stagnating lives of wealthy spinsters with overwound sex drives and mattresses overflowing with cash? Or should we embark upon a string of daring raids on the homes of the rich and infamous?

Alice has come of age… a musket in one hand, a pink gin in the other.

Insinuating ourselves into the libraries of the well-to-do, we are visiting cousins Crimelia and Causette from far off Bohemia, lifting the contents of first editions, leaving skeletal dust covers, spilling drinks into the laps of ruptured Uncles, seducing distant cousins with Tantric expletives, corrupting sacred aunts with imaginary opiates, relieving bed-ridded Grandmothers of the cumbersome inheritance, secreting the family silver in a well placed coat sleeve. Cashing in the booty and embarking on year-long binges in the city's most offensive lobbies, bars and elevators, surrendered to the streets by night, inveigled in sleep by day.

Alice has come of age. "Throw Me," say the bottle and the burning rag.

"Do not, I beg you, look for anything behind phenomena. They are themselves their own lesson." Goethe.

Rollo