I’m thinking things through: through the eye of a needle, through a glass darkly, and through thick and thin. It’s mostly through thick, to be honest: thick as two short planks and, naturally, thick as thieves. I’m thinking about thieves, and how kleptomania was only pathologized in order to spare the reputations of middle-class women filching from department stores, just as empire was a handy disguise for stealing land and futures. And I’m thinking about a self-styled emperor, thick as mince, mincing across the world stage, robbing from the rich and poor to give to the richer, without a thought for the average honest Joe or Jane, or Ahmad or Kateryna, or, more specifically, Alex or Renee. It’s the thin end of the wedge, the darkness that can’t drive out darkness, the needle in the burning haystack. I steal moments of calm when I can, I and try and try and try not to think. I’m through.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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