Dance, fat boy, dance, says W. Do your chicken dance, he says. Do the funky chicken. W. likes to watch me dance, he says. It's so improbable. So graceless.
Why do you hang out with Lars?, everyone asks him. It's so he can watch me dance, W. has decided. He alone understands my significance, W. says. It's been up to him. Just watch him, then you'll understand, he says to everyone else. But they can't see a thing, W. says.
The chicken won't stop: that's what's etched into the runoff groove of the last Joy Division album, isn't it. It's like a mantra to W. It should be pondered at length. – 'You won't stop, will you', W. says. That's part of the horror. That I show no signs of stopping. But it's part of my glory, too, W. says. Who put the coin in the slot? Who am I amusing? Him, just him, W. says. No one else.
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