Time. The submersion into hot oil. More time. The wax puddles freeze into hard chunks, witnesses with tongues that won’t budge until the next funeral blaze.
‘Might night right sight?’ asks Andrew Joron.
After reading this Barthes line, my imagination went nuts, splashing his words with watercolor and building the following scene:
‘Rescind yourself,’ life mandates in its soothing, raspy voice.
‘No,’ you respond, firmly.
The bottom of your feet start to tickle. You feel extinction’s eraser working softly.… Read More