On the 18th of November 2019, Giulia and Alex invited some friends over for dinner. The flat was all put together, the table coated with a feline cloth, and we decided to write a piece of spontaneous text that our guests would continue, one by one, throughout the dinner. A “Chinese whisper” or “wireless telephone”, a “deaf telephone” – the game was simple. The first person to arrive would read the paragraph that the both of us wrote and write their response. The second person to arrive would read the first person’s response and subsequently write their own: the string would continue with each guest’s arrival.
Things came out right in the end, as they always do when you ask someone to fill an empty sheet of paper. We all know that the “empty sheet of paper” is never empty, not even before the pen decides to contribute a first dot to its surface; same as that when we write, we always write for the other, even when writing “to” or “for” ourselves.
The winds blow the rays of light in one direction at a time, leaving behind a deserted sun. The sun leaps backwards, surprised of the event, surprised: of the event, turning it away from its own happening [arrivée], not allowing itself to bevent, and as such,finally arrive — unless by surprise.
You surprised me when you covered my horizontal body with polystyrene, I could not jump out. You surprised me when you breathed incessantly through the wooden pipes and then removed the mouthpiece, breathing and spitting. The sun had long descended, then a man arrived, cleaning in the window. The sound coming from the window calmed the both of us. The repetition of the sound sent me in a meditative state. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again it was as if the colours around us had changed. The mood was different. And it was almost as we had both become other people. No, in fact, we have become the same person. I was seeing a reflection of myself, mirroring
my gestures, and my expressions too. My forehead is dripping with sweat. I can’t stop the pained expression on my face... As each sweat falls I look up to down, my raised head point left to right, the mirror follows. When I point forward it points back. When you stare deep into the abyss, the abyss’ sweat drips back on you. Drips onto you, onto your forehead, onto the glabella, the nose, and then falls from you, desperately. The floor splattered with it, and now you see. The mirror is fogged,fogged, jucked. You’re fucked.
And indeed, my friend... you’re knicked. Arrested for thingsI know not. Imprisoned the bars between me and the outside are charred, scared and scratched by those who’ve come before. I’m looking forward to being back. My freedom lives in a bandage age has no time left. Your lips, your ears, your eyes are sensitive to me. Can you play with sense?
Indeed, my friend, we’re playing death telephone. Your nick. I’m rested for things I know. Prison... bars... get me a drink. Red wine, please, make it a large. I feel the need to dull my senses. But your lips, your eyes still remain. To sleep perchance to dream. I can play with sense and senses.
Bars, notes, scales. Sliding through the channels; up, down. Up down. Four corners meet wherever we meet.
To enclose us ten hundred and eighty times, in spite
Interlaced with fear and loathing is marked “Control”.
What is the Alternative? Mine what’s mine and yours is
wired through wormhole, pummelling through tunnels.
O, behold the New World! (2.0 Hd)
One draws the line quite deep through the
glacier. Hark, hark, the angels sing
The core has officially
As senses are my way of explaining the world. Making myself
understood. Beyond my thoughts. I feel like nobody else, even
if we live the same life. So where do I begin and you end? The
wine is getting lower in the bottle and higher into our bodies.
It communicates within our perspectives, getting us closer. Our
socks are so different though.
Our socks are so different though.
Our socks are so different though. The colours. The patterns.
The stripes. The holes.
Our socks are so different though. You write to me about
connected-ness, translating from one to another, making links.
Exchanging thoughts through our tentacles. We are not as
intelligent though. If I squinted black as a distraction, I
would be lining in my own smog, procrastinating in my own clouds.
Different coloured socks on my eight legs, I have plenty of spares
if you need any.
Eight legs, each with five toes, each toe with one leg... a leg
a leg a leg a leg. Do you have any spares for my legs? It’s
cold, your breath cut and for one moment it’s like we share the same skin.