again a few words have passed and the ground between
them is now frozen. The language has become harder, the
breathing heavier. When I get outside of the door, I see
way morewool than fur. My rhythm of speech has slowed
down and the information density has increased. Driven
by their own motivation nobody wants to get down anymore.
In yesterday's newspaper I read about the patterns of
possibilities in metropolitan areas. It was about the diffusion
and penetration of communication poles. Walking around in
circles without any dimensions. Agravic determining in
between slangs. During moments like these no virus is able
to find any supporting material. Everything is then subjected
to the design process. God = process. Glaube an deine Arbeit.
The constant change between waves and particles seems to be
like composting. You then start to understand that there's no
last link to the chain, that everything you now think, say or do
is completed within all the others before and after.
No start, no end. You get to the footage gestures just like that.
Communicate in dialect gestures and pretend everything would
be 1: infinity. Yup. Seen in the mirror, this formula exposes
itself as being a wrinkle. And the smoking starts again in your
head. And the queen of the bees dances the words
"The statement is so wrong that not even the opposite is true."
Then she flies back home and eats gelée royal from the delicacy
cave. The secretaries smoking-hot love gasoline secretions of
their food-juice-soup-gland and upper-water-jaw-gland.
A found meal as they would say. Talking about scoring, this
FAT SALT SUGAR SEX I sent to you is the last version. I'm
now considering whether or not to incursively cut two-thirds
of the glass from the picture frame, so that there would be a
possibility of an uncontrolled access to steal the sheet or to
edit it, like a thought's or respectively an idea's exposure,
to intend a possible access, just to see how this earth's respect
enhances itself on ways inaccessible to me within that
composted thought. I believe in a cycle of things, we still can't
understand. I myself lean on to the liar's invention, and examine
the incomplete reality. This world is so close to me.
Greetings from Berlin. Bruno
Für SOMEMAGAZIN.COM Ausgabe Autumn 2012 a letter fromwww.somemagazin.com