Ongoing, see text and google drive, I'm not joking, what you see is not a finished work, the final work will be a video with music made by K, thanks K, love you.

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1FGIl-h0POLJCjCoCximyUvF3mhsVemdB?usp=sharing

Remember how we first met?

Didn’t we meet in front of that fountain in Italy? You told me you are a Proust reader with a cigarette in your hand.

No you put it too melodramatic.

It wasn’t a real place.
Remember\\\
``
Remember??
`

It was a park.

A very generic playground.

You and I have very different ideas of what a park is.

But we can agree that there has to be an open sky no?
[long pause] sky is immanent

Did you know the sky was only made for showing the users the reflectance of a shiny material.
“Here, where we are, amounts to nothing more, perhaps, than a reflection, or floating shadows.” Maybe I'm making the reference too literal here. But you get the idea, our sky exists only in a space of ABSENCE.
Just like us? [chuckles]
Just like us.

The fountain where we met is a picture uploaded on google maps, doesn’t that bother you? It bothers me as much as the fact that you are not a Proust reader.

I'm just here helping you build a story and it’s gradually taken shape. It doesn’t matter where we met, and that you always let me eat oysters alone, I don’t care, everything we do is half ironic and half symbolic. your ideas are swampy. Shouldn’t you just let it alone? we can maybe even find god together.

nothing is left, even the idea of transgression. [pause] well maybe apprehension, how amazing,
[ In Air and Dreams: An Essay on the Imagination of Movement, Bachelard describes “perceiving and imagining are as antithetical as presence and absence. To imagine is to absent oneself, to launch out toward a NEW LIFE."
here if our presence is solely built upon absence,
clotted, messy, and I find it even sticky, being in a limbo, our ability to imagine is fractured, or rather it was never there.

Everything is lost, the poems first, then sleep, then after that the day then everything else, what belonged to the day and what belonged to night, then when nothing more could be lost, more was lost, and then more, until there was less than nothing, not even myself, and there really was nothing more. (bachmann)

You’re reading poems in translation. second hand poignance, for you it’d be third hand because english is not even your first language, [quietly] or i’ll give you 2.5 hands, second and a half hand? how do you say this?
[door creaks open]

Yes. It’s like staring at this simulacrum of the sky, which I thought would belong to the realm of the sublime, nature, loosely speaking, it was a total disenchantment ever since Bucolic Green Hills became the default wallpaper of windows XP. But at least it was a real place, [pause] sorry, I owe you 5 bucks if I speak of the word real again.
Let's ban the word, I will be a tyrant just because I can.

Sure, sure. And yet we are in the reflection of a default material, I get your point, not even a render, further removed.. eroding away.

That’s why I always find myself going back to the fountain. It's more of an idea of a fountain, you know I lied to you—the fountain is not in Italy, it was taken by someone on the internet who took a trip to the capital city of somewhere east of italy. I kept fine-tuning the details of how we met because I think it means a great deal to you. you like venice don’t you? even if it’s sinking and full of gift shops.

ah! Death in Venice

[The movie or the novella?

The movie. Guy was hot indeed.]

Here, I added some clouds to the scene. I saw a cutout picture of this type of cloud in the drawer while you were packing. It was the last day, you couldn't decide whether to throw away that exotic cigarette box or not, a collector, that's what you claimed to be, to arrest the temporality, but of what? Your half empty box of bandaid, does it solidify your wounds, ephemeral, wandering in the streets around the impossible fountain, what does it mean to remember the pain from walking in your new shoes? maison margiela black kinkies pump heels, pleats at pointed toe, and Your museum flyers, your tickets and receipts, the rock collected from the beach that fits nowhere and you decided to throw it in your purse, trillions of ubiquitous objects ended up in the clouds, literally, metaphorically, subliminally, symbolically, vertiginously.

The term stratus describes flat, hazy, featureless clouds at low altitudes varying in color from dark gray to nearly white. The word stratus comes from the Latin prefix Strato-, meaning "layer". Stratus clouds may produce a light drizzle or a small amount of snow. These clouds are essentially above-ground fog formed either through the lifting of morning fog or through cold air moving at low altitudes.

Doesn’t sound like these clouds belong to the place we met. On a higher level, yes, maybe, layers under layers under layers, neither too warm nor too cold, too dark nor too bright, colorless–you know there’s a misconception that black, white and gray are colors, they are not, they are temperatureless, non chromatic, that what I learnt in color theory class.

your hair is becoming frizzy in the fog.

moist air, performing alchemy with uncontaminated promises, turning into specters, You and I, not-here and not-not-here.
A ruin forgets what ruined it, softly submerged in the shadow cast by shiny metal
tactility as a foreign concept
all become whispers
that replace wind

the least consumable entity.

Where everything is lost

*****quiet death