All stories are stories of disintegration.
The desire to sink down into the earth. To retreat to the primordial. What are words but excuses for bad faith? What is civilisation but a feeble heap of sand? All long for an escape. There may be cracks in the fabric of things. But most live as puppets on strings whose master is named cowardice.
The violence of love. The madness of infatuation. Still, the pervasive longing for escape. To dig out of…
Word becomes flesh. And before the word, the laughter of the immortals prevailed. What use is language? just another elaborate set of symbols. All is excess. Whether we possess the gift of language or not, the blueprint remains the same. Creatures driven by desire, consumption, excess, always excess. Even Christ is a thief. He hauls the cross and spends his days in the company of the poor and the ostracised. Still, he is caught in the net of greed, consumerism,…
A rumination on solitude, detachment, the corrosive idealism of one submerged within his own illusions. He is the dreamer of Dostoyevsky’s White Nights, a wandering soul, frittering his days and years in the tomb of his mind’s fantasies. Slumbering within the sanctum of his dreams, he renounces reality. But it is a reluctant kind of sacrifice, something which slides into being without any true volition.
The days dribble by with a ritualistic recurrence: he walks, he mutters into his recording…
A life caught between the snares of stillness, stagnation. Thoughts froth at the surface, qualms and dreams and petty agitations. The two men watch, eternal spectators to the theatre of mortality. They drift in suspension, hanging upon the cliffs of unreality—between the clutches of lucidity and delusion.
The sequence is crafted with a temporal fluidity; thoughts spill into words which contaminate, words which infect. But the infection is one barred from those who drift in eternity. They are saved from…
