The pirate boards the train, walks from one end to the other, a bag draped over his shoulder. Protruding from the bag, a darkness that contains a kind of vessel - an emptiness that nonetheless sings forth, bubbling up like a form of witch-craft extending out to fill the carriage with disjointed sentiment: Celine Dion finds her way to Mexico City, tucked under the arm of this particular traveller, who, according to the movements of various economies (black, white, pink...), bounces to stolen rhythms, duplicated CDs, pocketed cash. And I watch as the sounds turn this subway trip into a pirate ship, a journey become fugitive sound, the underground now an ocean for sonic colonization: I buy a CD and contribute to this form of delicious occupation.
