Alcoholics in the long grass, stretching their limbs and laughing, half-drunk bottles of cider by their ankles. Anyone can walk on the Town Moor, he likes that, W. says. Where the alcoholic can walk, he walks, W. says. And where the alcoholics cannot walk — where his way is barred by security guards or policemen — W. will not walk either.
Shouldn't we lie down in the long grass and drink ourselves to death?, we wonder. Shouldn't we just give up — give up everything — and let death come and find us on the Town Moor? But we consider ourselves to have work to do — that's our idiocy, and our salvation. We actually take ourselves to be busy — that's our imposture and our chance of survival.
Lars Iyer's Blog 