One day the wind told me to be quiet, and so the silence began.
Today, just noise and barely any light.
I hear blurred.
"...Listen to the ticking of the clocks..."
But time is an invention that only makes us self-inflict this life that pushes on
even if you don't want to
even if you can't.
At the same time, it's a clue that everything is finite, a warning that nothing will happen twice.
f o r t u n a t e l y
"...tic, tac, tic, tac..."
Because this life isn't, it's happening.
And we must find other ways of inhabiting and to get used to it, to radiate echoes and to reveal bodies that move on their own, to swallow the colors of the world.
The wind reminds me that we should dispense with time.
Its echoes insist me on becoming aeolian and drawing ellipses on the ground with my body.
invader of environments
At the same time, it urges me to molt life and go herd whales, to search for traces.
But I see no one.
To become all sounds
impregnated with all noise
i n u n i s o n
Adorning itself with wind and water,
with asylum in anonymity,
wherever we're heading.
But opposite poles violate their physics,
they cease attracting each other,
parallel lines don't exist,
they're a radiography of nothingness.
.-. .- -.. .. --- --. .-. .- ..-. .. .- / -.. . / .-.. .- / .-.. .-.. ..- ...- .. .-
And that animal with the shapes of all animals woke up one night on the ground.
That helpless shipwreck in the fetal position, that from a distance simulated a human being, opened its eyes.
And no, it wasn't a simulation.
Astonishment moved to their eyes, they looked around searching for a shoulder to whisper to that no, nothing matters anymore.
They ran away with so much fear that it even made the dogs howl in horror.
None of this is true,
time doesn't exist.
I t ' s n o i s e