The Ecstatic Silence: 3
Reegan sweated on the thin line between middle management and passive gofer. It was a common differentiation. The whole situation stank of Aristotle where everyone – from air stewardess to Barbara Hepworth – burst at the seams with the matter of weeping potentiality. The golf club seethed over grassy knolls and exits, deploying a secret pathology of landscape which denied, insistently, that ‘Form is not a product.’ The general drift of the fairways opened up a cleaved sky and a mediated plastering job on the Kundmanngasse.
