Pharmakon is the remedy, or the poison.
Every opening day, at a certain time, a Last Conversation in the Foam at the Corners of Your Lips begins, a gestating cycle that you are invited to enter. In the creature’s damp lair, an inert form diffuses a dangerous conversation. From one awakening to the next, a detached entity insatiably goes hunting. The environment seems to form a layer of protection that it is difficult to transgress, yet lets out a few groans of stifled lives. The global body becomes cancerous and oozes liquid.
After these moments wrested from the nothingness that you resist, in the refuges of the breaches that you desire, there can be no more going back; it is too late to stay calm. That is what such an operation implies. There is a moment when you believe in each person’s importance, there is a monument when you have to wield the knives; this is the first step outside the circle. Which is necessary when the world is off its axis.
Praise in the flesh of the age that raises the midnight sun.
Praise in the margins.
Let’s dance before we are spotted.
Let’s dance before we are torn apart.