"into this carefully mad wars" he said once... well, is just it, we have such wasted actions, like conversations, we never say anything, after all, we wander about, fighting for air, for rest... but then again, doing something for rest is as absurd as can be. I can only wish to rest, to sleep...
I look at the reflection in the board - said Jil - and look for an other world in it while listening how France used to be Galia, off with the Celts, war is what we use, as a desperate effort not to stay the same, a fear of eternity. If we see nothing ahead we'll just find each other, fighting in the dark, running aimlessly, colliding; all to find some light after the explosion.
The steps cover the spots of black and white and red in the gray tiles. The words of Greek and Latin mix up in explanation to what we have become, the past, the present, is all the always. A long existence of recycling each other. Repetition, repetition, repetition.
Forever is as long as there is to be or exist, forever waiting, two minutes before being freed is as long as two minutes, two years, two centuries. A few minutes worth thirty lives lived in you’re head.
Two years of nothing, with no memories, gone before finding anything to remember.
Weak shadows stretch through the floor, like ghosts, hunting our feet; so they'll move restlessly about, making dry noises under our words, words spoken as to create some moments of knowledge, something firm and strong to hold onto once the ghosts grow inpatient and start pulling us down, something to make sure we wont fall from our current reality, so we wont have to start all over again with the process of blending own heads with the knowing, enough not to see what moves again under our feet.
We can't hear the time ticking away anymore, it's lurking by silently in its liquid glass world, and now it slips helplessly through our hands like when it was sand... without being felt or noticed, so it'll be cried desperately once is noticed missing, like the despair felt when the ground disappears from beneath our feet.
Now the wind blows, the present notes drifting away with it. People walk by, non touch, there is no contact, all pieces stand on top of each other, but not touching, they look like an impressionist painting from afar , with lots of strokes that fuse together in one composition; but looking closer they're just a million of crystal windows, like glitter, never really belonging to one another.
Still the leaves dance in the top trees, music from all the different parts mingles, like waves of that which can not be touched.
