prueba

Good morning says the turtle. He says quietly taking off the shell. How to explain such a long gap and so much cold.
If life was a canyon, we would have fallen longer ago than our memories, but I don’t remember anything about that.


What shrines have we collecting and dissecting:
We have one drawing composed of four abstract pen lined sheets of paper sewn together tinted painted and adorned in every sense
In every technique possible at the same time
In a fiendish desire to make a story, to always look towards something finished. Sweet even.
A cell, open inside its walls.
Encapsulating, pain is a flower.
Like this one, and that one and that one.
But small, hole, and polished. Yes forget me, screaming towards rebirth.
How they come together:
There once was a ghost, half lion and half spider. He spun a web, I fell in. In a tower, in the corner. Along came the wind, witch, wicked and unsparing and swept it all away. Before it ever began, over and over again. On the beach. Morality and mortality. Nudity amongst the bathers, nipple colored glasses in the sand.
Nights of sleeping nothing in the golden light of streetlamps
And waking up once again, days later beneath a pessimistic swan, cloaked in cast off sails unsure of the year. As if every moment had been the same had always been the same for much time or rather every moment constituted its own static reality disjunct from its neighbors, just as your neighbor could be your constant companion, were you to whittle away a small hole in between the floors. A hole is far more intimate than a window. The gradual realization that one is an alien, that one, like everyone, is a complete stranger from every other, the more intense the realization, the more specialized the construction of windows and attempts, to export ones own personal little world to the world at large. Architects, for example, are not like the rest of us.