1. |
Porte matin
05:57
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I am the story I tell. I tell to fill a space. Each time that space is different. That space is what takes place. Memories are what's left when what takes place decays. Their structure is different from that part of me that falls apart. The latter is coarse and bears visible remains of what actually took place. Completely moist memories, however, have a spongy, almost jelly-like appearance, and a characteristic dark hue.
A large portion of me decomposes into something inert. A fraction does not and is blunted instead into sequences. These sequences share parts. This makes them resistant to the action of organised entities, and therefore more stable.
I can be blunted either naturally or artificially. I am generally dulled by what feeds on the part of me that decays. The remains, including those that have been ingested and excreted, contain aggregates. Some gradually decompose over several years, while others persist till the end. The memories that persist are protected from decomposition because they are hidden inside the pieces of what I am now.
"I" am not an extension of one, but a sequence of many. The "we" I am is an assemblage of memories with jointed appendages and one pair of echoes per segment. The number of echoes may vary, but the number of pairs is always odd.
Sometimes, a memory will prey on another. The memory that is preyed upon is pinned down and masticated until none of it remains. As it is consumed, it finally sees it is a part of a whole. The pain it endures gives it clarity and focus, providing relief from an otherwise convulsive and dwindling state. When the light starts to flicker, only one will remain. Which one will that be?
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2. |
Maison blouse
05:42
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3. |
Allée loin
04:15
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Someone leaves stuffed animals in my rooms. Their numbers and their size increase steadily day by day. I've tried disposing of some, destroying of others. But they always seem to come back. Every morning, there they are, staring at me with their beady eyes.
At first, it was only in the rooms on the ground floor. But progressively, I began to find them in the rooms on the first, and then the second. I'd lock some in the lower rooms before I'd go to bed, only to find them in the corridor in front of my bedroom when I awoke. Every night, they seem to get closer and closer.
They also seem to change, to evolve. They are gradually becoming skin-mounted versions of their earlier, softer selves. Their grins have widened, revealing teeth that didn't seem to be there before. They smile at me as I walk past. Their eyes bulge. I feel their gaze upon my back.
At night, when I sleep, I dream of things buried that do not want to be, of things unearthed that should not be. I feel frames pushed and fitted into my flesh. I feel them shape me, making me take postures that are more unnatural than they are uncomfortable. I cannot seem to move my limbs. I cannot bring myself to turn my head. I can only stare straight ahead with beady eyes.
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4. |
Plaine étude
07:07
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5. |
Pays passage
06:25
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They found him in the Mire at Høn, when you follow the Hill to Black Bridge, downstream from Pull Near. The area is shrouded in mist and low clouds. The Trail passes through the Mire. It is the neutered heart of the Way, a cold place, where vacancy and glut collide, beaten by strong winds and fierce winters. Those that follow the Trail all yearn for something else. They wear chimaera, carry envy, and a small, brown book. It is always their hour. But they forget. The Trail is not a Path. Those that venture too far are numbed into blankness, flat, denser versions of themselves echoing forever onwards. Something nameless was heading headlong towards the West, something fetid and foul. It did not ask to be feared; it only demanded surrender. Nearby, Crystal Camino was putting on his black hat. Everything was about to change.
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6. |
Cloche pied
10:52
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Thin Consolation Brussel, Belgium
A Two-Word Gesture
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