You assume a certain air...Just you and your juices, you walk on.A territory gradually absorbed, it is only for atmosphere your advance.
What does that mean?
You confidently mold it, only it seems that it molds itself, however it pleases. Damn it! You continue.
You look for evidence in others, compare it to your own. There are certain distinct things that set you in your rightful place. Of course.
It has to turn out well. You believe there is an intrinsic justice in the world, that justice triumphs in the end, that the wheel turns, inside out. For the better.
Your space is carefully punctuated by significant objects ‘til the gate.There there’s a bit of a conceptual disorder.Then there’s the place from which you leave.
Something follows you, something from your private space.When you leave.
You draw with your hand in the air, here and there, what’s left, beyond.Gestures generate a space that belongs to you, momentarily.Bonds you momentarily.
That’s why they sell things because people buy them.Then they justify their choice.
Depends how you want to position yourself.
Perhaps one day you will dispose of them,A ritual for disappearing unwanted thoughts.If you don’t give them attention they disappear.You need only think of something else.
Plastic bags are abysses in which thingsdisappear, like magic. Then they pop up againwhen you least expect them, or not.
When talking about our things we never forget to justify their possession,they are useful to us in one way or another.Why do you still keep it? Maybe I’ll need it one day.I need it for something...I’m emotionally attached to it, it acts as a key towards certain memories.Make up something on the spot. It looks good regardless...
I’ve had many useful things,that’s why it’s hard to relate to one in particular.With a small thing you can get much greater results though.It’s important to have a unified whole.
Things have their mysterious lives.You can’t find it in a logical order.We all have these things that disappear for days and thensuddenly reappear, as if they’d been there all along. You’ll never know their intentions.
It’s like it’s alive.
It is irritating, the feeling that that they are still here evenwhen you are not, when you are no more. You only think of yourself, really.Discard another plastic bottlein the woods and you’re even.
Pale objects wander to and fromAsking when you will be back,when you’ll finally look at them.
Things in themselves, you merely grasp their outline.Everything has a limit.
Things with which you relate,to which you have a certain access,compose a private space together with you.Whether you want to or not. What you think doesn’t matter.
You collect textures. Lacking objects.You collect structures. Lacking you.You’re already part of another’s collection.
Palpable petable animals, in their place in your space. Meow.
In the beginning strawberries were sweet.That is how I remember them.What happens between strawberries and snails is none of our concern.You eat snails and strawberries while imagining eating strawberries.Vital strawberries with traces of snails. They slide gently, gently on strawberries,on lips, soft motion,you are not what you eat,nor is what you eat you.
You don’t belong to yourself. We belong to each other.You mean to say you don’t depend on anyone/anything?Nothing depends.
You are sitting at your desk, typing on your laptop(I speak about myself as if about another I’m aware I don’t belong to myself).You are sitting on a chair at the desk under the laptop which stands on a carpet.And your clothes lie on you, and we all lie one on top of another.We are at the same time close. To you, to me.You don’t even realize what you’re involved in, then we stand in awe of what has structured itself,and this is owning to the fact that we allhave gathered here today.
Then you had an unusual dream. Different from all that came before.And so you concluded that everything has reassembled itself, somewhere outside the limits of your perception.
You think you are separate from the trash that you see.Trash that sprouted more or less by chance. The arrangement is random.But as you sit and watch it you notice un a space-time bubble, you are there, “together” with the trash, which is now part of you, because of your thinking of it.Somewhere in the lower part of your body, your feet are sunk in it,in the trash.You’ve assembled yourself into it.
I had the feeling I was dreaming, I don’t understand anymore.What’s this doing here?Oh, just be present here, feel etc., observe the tensions, relax.
An unnoticeable void joins the order.What used to connect you is nowforgotten.Forgetting also appeared by chance.
We gently sway like two leaves, would be nice if it were in nature. Natural. But it was just a garden.We were gently swaying listening to the plashing of the snails.That kept on slurping the strawberries. We hadn’t killed them yet.They’re pretty cute. Our swaying dance, or whatever you want to call it, is for them.
Suggest something. Out loud so it seems real.Something must seem real.As you say.
In the dark, things hide,seem fluid. You bathe in them.They’re a bit dark though.Unsettlingly dark.
The world of lost, forgotten things.It was their choice.
The world of things disposed of. With them you yourself are erased from a story.He was a normal character, too normal. I erased him.
Your world is forever affected.Your world mingles with other worlds, of different durations,to affect and be affected by.Other worlds have already mingled with yours.What you thought about yourself is changed. You have left existence for a while.
He was suspended like a balloon.He held me by the hand so I didn’t fall,next to me was a void of meaning, one step and you’re done for,something had to ground me in the scheme of things.
You know how hard it is to reintegrate into the mesh of everyday trifles...To pretend that...