Le Interrogation

Wow. That was quite frightening. How I unilaterally hate this despise this place and now even more so (if that is even possibly possible) after being called in by The Apparatus to their interrogation center.

This was not their hideous headquarters in the hideous heart of Soybean island, but rather their holding center--near Set. Abattoir de Chevres Pre de la Mer--for all we prisoners class individuals. I had not been to this place in almost exactly three years--that is--when I was first swept up and spirited away to Soybean Island on Valentines Day in 2012. Yes. Valentines Day! Yes. Three years!

The top photo--yes, I surreptitiously kept taking photos--is something new. Either an attempt at artwork--representing portuguese man-o-wars, I gather--or some form of elaborate listening device disguised as portuguese man-o-war artwork. Whatever it was it proved rather unnerving.

Now, The Apparatus didn't directly come and invite me to this netherworld within the netherworld of the island itself, rather I was summoned. They summon me through the mail. That is, as part of the prisoner class, I receive no mail, except when The Apparatus wants to contact me, to tell me or suggest to me or to order me to do some thing or another--they usually contact me in the form of adverts, which can be confusing.... Anyway, I was told to come here:

This despicable and airy spot where a member of the secret police approached me from behind and told me to sit and told me not to turn around and told me to shut up. At least I think that's what happened.

I did what I think I was told.

They were rather concerned about my wanderings. They were concerned that something could happen to me. They--he, really, though perhaps it was a husky she, as I never turned around to view my interrogator--were worried for me, for my well-being, what with my going out to the Homesteads, what with my venture north to Stalag Ranville last summer (They knew!!!!). Yes, he, she, they said: We wouldn't want anything to happen to you.

(Of course not--I represent money in their pockets as long as I am alive. As to who or whom is paying for my illegal retention on this illegal isle, I do not know!)

But listening to their vague and threatening concern for me gave me the willies and certainly had the effect of shrinking my photographic tableau . . .

Yes. I was no more than a blurry white dot upon the terrazzo of life. But a speck of sphagnum. A spot of pigeon poop. A circle of trivial nothingness that will be wiped clean in the morning by some underpaid unnamed ignored worker . . . I was that, or rather, this:

Ah. Such is not life.

But as far as The Apparatus went--Look!

At least they had a flower:

And, evidently, a wine bar:

Wow.

Wouldn't it be nice to be a member of The Apparatus?

No.

It would not.

That is all there is to report. Oneninefiveseven over and out.

Goodbye from Soybean Island