#howmuchofthisisfiction.*

I step and stop to think:

does Assange really use that old laptopped Debian and

fillip of 

a memory stick?

Is he really leaving glasses of whisky 

around and 

about, like clues

of yays and nays:

of does, and doesn’t he, or when he

or might?

And then the unease takes over:

like when faced with the choice between 

one lover or this

other.

And so the room which they say

is the room of embassy,

impossible to photo 

and deniable of all FACT, is

the place we remove ourselves from –

when he in fact

cannot: a visual 

rumour it then evokes: a gossip of 

joke, an almost

physical tract.

And in the end when truth is clearly at stake,

the intellect is at C without

the veracity of e[m]{ocean}.

The [t]ruth of a reality: an

[en]treaty of 

war now enjoined.

* I took these photos at the latest exhibition, just launched at FACT Liverpool: where art begins to engage directly with humanity’s most pressing challenges.

And this is just the beginning.






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