If you can detect, without looking at the paino what hand plays what note, you are listening to a bad player. This man is the very model of a collapsed dualism, or rather a collapsing one, since the two hands remain distinct despite their similarities: the left hand is more repetitive, the right hand more discursive. This is the collapse into the spiralling control of trust in historical fateliness.   

Listening back into the music hall portal of Gyllene Cirkeln, Stockholm 1962, into a unit that makes my closed curtains and stock-home bedsheets look and feel great. An early unit that unites the world with my image of it: my close movements under the duvet, under my jeans, under my pants, under my skin, to my arteries, up to my aorta, through my cortex, brain and eyeballs tied to the following flow in proliferations;

A4 printouts, clothes, satellite dishes, control rooms, tinkering workering fingers, their brains and eyeballs, their control rooms, the traffic heads, the dead signals, the secretarial trade lines, the constant recalculations of worthy energy times courting. During side a did I dream of a flat triangle of

    Money earned, working time + quantity of willingness to part with former to        recuperate latter?
Or was it:
    Money earned, working time + quant. of will. to part with former to increase     the former?
Or:
    Money earned, time working and quant. of will. to part w/above to recuperate     below?  
Or:
    Money earned, time working and quant. of will. to live inside a transparent     optical flat, with polished surfaces that refract light internally and a thin     slithery door too bright to open for the beam expanders weekend supplement.