Walking is the best way to explore and exploit the city; the changes, shifts, breaks in the cloud helmet, movement of light on water. Drifting purposefully is the recommended mode, trampeling asphalted earth in alert revierie, allowing the fiction of an underlying pattern to assert itself.
What the map cuts up, the story cuts across, drawing a map larger than the territory. Alignments of telephone kiosks, collections of supermarket catalogues, visits to the homes of dead writers. Broken sentences and forgotten names wink like fossils among the ruins. Walking, moving across a retreating townscape stitches it all together: The illicit cocktail of bodily exhaustion and a ragin carbon monoxid high.
Nach: Iain Sinclair, Lights Out for the Territory, 1997.