Do nothing. Or something.
Just don’t do what I say.
Or you can do something
that you believe I’m saying
just because
I'm saying something.
Such as reading this text.
You've already done a lot
by now.
No need to go further.


I know you might feel
you’re being held hostage
by my instructions.
Which are not telling you to do anything, really.


Just keeping you enticed by
a screen.
At this particular moment,
I am this screen.
And I get some kind of abstract pleasure thinking about
electric impulses blindly ejected upon the skyline of your brain
while you're reading this.
This text is just an excuse to precipitate it.

That untraceable shimmer, an odd sizzling feeling.


Cause I’m not going to ask you to do anything.
And you may leave by now.

We’ve already gone far beyond my intentions.

Right now, I’m not interested in what you do.
Neither in you.
Mostly because there's no time or chance for us to get to know each other.
For that, I'm already sorry.
But that doesn’t give me the righteousness or even barely the wish
to tell you how to fill in your time.


I guess that’s my own problem, right.

Maybe you really want to read this,
since you came that further.
You might be attracted to me.
Or to my discourse.
Or maybe you’re just really interested in
abandoning yourself to random people’s sensorial perversions
at this particular moment
in your greedy life.
Well, then, I could even be truly sorry.


But I won’t give you anything more than this.
I know you enjoy it.


As a matter of fact, I might have given you already a lot.
I’ve just denied you access to your personal daily sublime experience
- while subtly trapping you in my language.

Well, I'm doing this for you, believe me.
I'm also getting paid for this,
yes, so you could argue that
I’m doing it
mostly
for
me.

But the thing is,
that I’m concerned with your self-indulgence
and all too compartmented states.

In a world where this score is possible, I'm scrapping your
thoughts until your ears heavily bleed sound.
Cause maybe I’m a serial sonic killer,
who can only sleep
when the next frequency seems ready to shamelessly exterminate the former one.
Only to come back at night in your absence,
soaked in unruly overtones,
and watch your bedsheets shaped differently.
Once upon a time
when sound was still an oscillation,
and people believed they could just go back and forth between their redundant habits...

No, I'm not here to save you either.



This is not about your private redemption accountancy.
If you think you can save the world with your behavior,
you probably belong to
a privileged
alacrity-deprived
fraction of worldwide institutionalized agony.
Because yes, who else would still be reading this?

An alarm sounds.
Only a couple,
of those already few.


Your resonance chambers could be getting steadily
stuffed with a certain aversion to being affected.

In the ordinary fiction of things,
first, the rise of a wall we can’t even see,
and then
the blow of a flying, thick white powder from
an animal bone or two.
Your tongue rests peacefully in moisture,
while you read this in the secrecy of your abandoned mouth.
All the sounds that haven’t been taking you there.
Your teeth are now a dissolved memory of dust.
And yet,
how viscous and dirty you are when you speak.
Cause being is over and over again and then, what’s left?
You’re still exhausted from being carried away.
Stored in a vertical series of containers,
some over, some above.

How misleading.

Your life is filled with these space-time vessels,
and you can hardly imagine navigating it without them.
Or maybe we should exactly look into the repository of function.
And how it informs the porosity of objects.



I’m performing for you right now.
I’ve become acquainted with this language only
to reach you.
My being in the world is not especially attached to it.

In a parallel world where I'm capitalism,
your office is the most utterly alluring sensorial temple.

Well, it’s official, you decided to stay.
Just as much as you were too tired to give up.
Yet? Everyday?
Let’s just not go into that.
Let’s wait for the appropriate time and space.
Because, just as the apocalypse, it will never come.


I wonder what happens to your body when you forget yourself in pleasure.
Your involuntary sounds, your tremulating skin, your interrupted breath.
Life is not anymore a problem to be solved.
The little distinguished hiatus
between acknowledged danger and the inevitable hint of an explosion.

I’m inclined to tell you
that the big bang is an overrated shot
and how it has now become just about whether or not to
take the next turn.
There's something rusty ricocheting in the micro-entangled spaces of your cells,
that operates unbearably loudly.


And I’m not going to be the one to help you get away with that.