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Serrano / Crowe

Still Life (voices)


Floating, taking part in actions without knowing them, without tasting them. Floating outwards, round about, in circles, in ecstasy in the sky, seeing the dust my footsteps leave, bleeding, leaving themselves behind, seeing the paths down in the valley, the criss-crossings that they make. Ceaselessly circling around all this lovesick carrion, obsessively circling and never touching anything ever.


Being there. Feeling my body opening through to my toes and finger-tips. Being mine. Being in his eyes. Being there. Not being. Unrepeatably repeating myself. Smelling myself, letting myself see through the sense of smell, unclothed, like this, the soul makes itself this vision which I supply, this friendship which is, which I prolong towards my body. To be because these fingers are my termites. Because in him I rise and in him I gaze at myself, I fall towards myself and in him I fall. Endlessly abandoning myself to myself in this laughter, being me and being her and me and being her and her and me before her vast eyes.

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