An uncharted memory flees stubbornly towards an increasingly distant era. The sensation of antiquity increases.

A multitude of countries wrongfully sent to sleep And everything looks in order from the outside unfailingly And always is there this rise of vastness on the inside this rise of memory, drifting. Like rediscovering Flying in the dark across a place of another era. We're there now, We're walking through. One night a growing blindness. Is that where we must go in? is that where we were, without knowing? A place where we liked to hide and to focus upon. Everything becomes the horizon, everything merges together, Everything is haunted. Sleep through deletion, a zone of secret passages and doubles and of things seen without sight. However, set back behind the curtain, where it is still forbidden to tread, the accumulation of memory continues,ancient. We know that this view,however, will not come from the outside. Everything must change its perspective, The smallest thing,elsewhere, is here as great as the greatest. For thousands of years has this process continued its path we are captured in this theatre of so many millennia We are in this thousand year old process unrelenting,one by one, the pieces of the game are picked up again, they will be re-diffused, different ones and the same, in the same way and differently. Meanwhile, high above, fleeing the game, it seems that a heavy silence points out the north. Nothing is certain,of course, in this muted evolution. But if you were being watched, head blindly onwards across each mistaken first impression. But if there was not only one witness, but rather an entire invisible crowd was watching you. If, at the same time, somewhere, in some unimaginable other place,

and which cannot cross the final barrier. it is a sort of implied speech. re-aligned alongside one another. If the roles were re-assigned.To the eyes of a calm crowd. If someone. While a light. in the same way and differently. Nothing is certain. Pain spread across landscapes you cross but can never reach.a blinding becomes transparent and open to unimagined images. weaving and binding together with decisive intensity. To the eyes of a calm crowd.cut short. they will be re-diffused.someone was working quietly to take your place. The production of memory continues. somewhere.and yet more rapid. the tide takes us away. One is now increasingly replaced by a clear and sure movement. Imprisoned speech.a more distant new beginning.Images returned and slowly brought back into focus with one another. The line is drawn behind the distributes the distances and roles on the other side. And that the viewpoint is the same everywhere.evolving together towards an agreement both calm and disturbed.detached from itself. again will come the blind indication that the smallest thing is as great as the very greatest. in this evolution that the whiteness stifles. and returned to us in silence by this white is invisible. stifled just before the key moment.each possible surface. In this oscillation. Nothing is certain. The pieces of the game are picked up the past. But if we were being watched. it is invisible. With the sureness of habit there is distraction. Neutral elements.and restored to order in silence.this margin.beyond.was slowly attempting to take your place. it continues to weave its infatiguable function.and multiplies. Today. where it is still forbidden to go. the movement. Pain spread across landscapes you cross but can never reach. Head blindly onwards across each mistaken first this muted evolution. and slowly brought back into focus together. in the suspense of the conjunction.monotonous. .Against all silence.different ones and the same. Rather. of the final juxtaposition.long-forgotten.nothing speaks anymore. Nothing speaks any more.hovering at the surface. Images returned. overwhelms and covers everything in silence. an irresistible tide. The relationship becomes less obvious.

where we are no more than a dot. . increasingly forgotten and distant.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful