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its a cold war calamity a thousand feet under and a hundred kilometres away we built a nuke-proof bomb shelter in the shape of the national gallery, you know, as a disguise. its rusted and old and looks like a bad Bond movie. but i'm sure Rembrandt and Pollock would have called it home. we hold secret meetings every tuesday well, not that secret anymore. nineteen... left, right, ninety-four. it still stands, proud, erect, and not forgotten by those who knew it. a little dust here and there never hid things well. there are things only i know. i've never filed anything, never told. it's something just for myself, well, and the builders. i papier-mached an entire room clay and limestone, you could mistake it for an unfinished, earthen lair. i wanted it to look normal, as much as possible with everyone now interested in a new home for artistic expression. the secret is partly that its secret, that i don't want you to know. you tour the house, my humble abode and think "hey, is this an exhibit, or real?" and keep on walking. easily accepted, easily forgotten. and now i'm thinking, if i ever leave this place, this crazy cool niche, and you see me for me, what will you think? the cuban missile crisis was a tricky incident, what was more fearful, that the Cubans were helping the Russians? or that the Americans never knew? Diefenbaker, Diefenbunker, the point is, it exists. |
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