I am not going anywhere to continue. An incomprehensibly quiet place in between. It is good as it is. Without falling into place. Without being okay. I don't know what I want, what benefits me. Yes, I know it well. That which exists for the sake of clarity. Which is never easy to keep track of, because the obscurity creeps into everything.
The call signals, the send signals that are waiting for while more are coming. I turn in a direction where I think things exist. A hand on a dark background makes a sign. Arms and legs stretched to the side. A peculiar prayer, like one who grasps something that does not exist. Like a bowl you hold with both hands. You go open without dropping the water. The hand carries, the back carries, the clay carries. Until it ripples over. I can't hold onto the water. No one can hold onto the water. It runs over the edge. Vandet. Vinterregnen. Cold Signal Erne. Infection porters. Corona Virus. Breath of death over great distances that catch each other, like widowed children playing in the sand. Without a home, alone, but many. I'm in a body that dies, it dies all the time, without preserving anything, it knows it, the body, it doesn't know it, sometimes it's one or the other. Which way to go?
Out of the mouth it pours with people and bacteria.
Who will go out victorious? Who lies in the dark while the call signals send their pulses through the dark mouth, the dark hole of the mouth? Out of the mouth it pours with people and bacteria. Out of the mouth comes the fool ship sails. Here we sail, in the same boat. Through my mouth we must be reconciled with each other. An open mouth makes me remember death. The only thing that counts is the resurrection. Then death. In my mouth the bodies are right. Who hears the unauthorized questions? Can't see the difference between hell and paradise, one is the other's leprosy, a spasm, a dark path, a dark path makes it easier to see what I've already seen, behind me it's already in front of me, as if I were only a few seconds, one or two just, on an empty platform, at a major station, think that's where it started. Without beginning. Without end. Consider placing me somewhere else. But where?
A mouth of sand where minerals and contamination run through.
Can easily grow into that which is no longer my own direction. No longer moving, turning around myself without anyone glowing, what glows continuously. Also behind the light are skeletons on their knees, only legs left with no heads swinging like the wind in a breath, weighing back and forth in the wind, like a call sign, an electrical impulse that casts its long shadows as it illuminates the world me. A mouth of sand where minerals and contamination run through. A scaffold without workers. A TV station without broadcast time. A city without people. A platform without trains. What is left of the place where I could stay? What is left of my being? My own experience of things? The bottom of this experience, which is yours too? Which could be yours. Who writes the next volume about the poverty of experience?
What is left when I have nowhere to go, then I go there, that's what I usually do, to the unknown streets, to the hope of nowhere that could still mean anything. Places that are not yet listed. Places that can still tell me something. Places that think without thinking anything. Where things still have ease. Which receives the light, like plants. Not being able to go there anymore. I thought that was the end. An incomprehensible ending, which is my beginning. Another beginning. Where I'm going. Now it's not me who continues. I'm standing still. It cannot be said. Who am I to say all this to?
Now comes the moment when the light falls inhuman to us, the unbearable light. Whose life is it? Can I die in that life. Can you die in mine? Soon things get smaller and bigger without us understanding how and why. Soon, it shines strangely, and we each go separately.