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Memories of the Future “The Branch Line”

“Now if that man’s in charge of exporting utopian socialism, then . . .” Quantin was about to descend the sinking stairs when an odd noise startled him: coming right for him—down 
the alley’s winding course—was a choir of glassy bubble-blowing, and loudly popping sounds, a discordant but merrily gurgling and cackling orchestra. In another minute, through the 
singing glass, he heard the steady tread and tramp of feet; then swinging around the bend he saw a flagstaff, and finally the actual procession. Quantin’s eye was caught first by the
slogan swaying between poles, GLORY TO THE UNWAKEABLE, then by the people staggering after it. The disorderly orchestra struggled on like a pile of leaves in the wind: sticking out of 
the musician’s mouths were large, upraised bottles without bottoms; their cheeks, swollen with blowing and bloating, belched through the inrushing liquor to produce a resounding 
march of bursting bubbles. Grazing the unemptying glass funnels were purple noses tumid with erections of desire. Grabbing at the walls with hundreds of palms, the procession, 
losing bodies, lunged on like a long and slithery centipede fond of damp and narrow cracks. 
Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky—translated from the Russian by Joanne Turnbull