First it’s about being bodies, upright and conscious, affluent for the coming consumption. Strolling around anxiously decorated as if breathing is mainly a matter of securing a legacy.
Life: Lapses of agony and excitement and some convincing results before iron rosed funerals. Later, human outlines will gradually vaporize, the physique turns transparent and square: hard to tell if its holsters are wax or the starved skin of too-late seduction. Walking doesn’t stop when the body does, wondering doesn’t stop when the mind rests.
One thing about dusk is its likeness to churches, a tub of sacral sensibility towards the gradually disappearing reality. Grief can really ripen here. Chunks of shadow ready to be dreaded or adored like kittens, and any movement animating this darkness resemble traces of a finished life. A finished day. Imagine this: You lay your global body down, its horizontality as an active resistance to being erect and busy. The head seems to leave the rest of the whole, the head goes to work now. It is unaware of the fact that the pending dawn above it will probably look like a castle, but a true head doesn’t halt at what it knows.
Is this a cycle: A number of walking consciousnesses infused with light, they’re synthetic and maybe unable to comprehend how they’re not attached to real bodies, maybe the real body only exist through a light infused consciousness. How deep a body becomes when it’s not awake, a screen shaped lake for loss and loss and self-recognition. Usually, opaque beings are the result of someone’s imagination, but ok what isn’t. Glowing heads see things and make others visible and aren’t evenings always suitable for this world’s persistent misfits. The unbelievables.
After some fruity sunset gazes five walkers are alternately crushing and dreaming reality. It’s possible to see them as yellowing bodies if you’re generally prone to accept that things taking place outside of immediate logic are also actual things. That a poppy is a spine, that open eyes are not a prerequisite for vision. Fabricated creatures emphasize your own blazer-clad realness, it is the human days encrusted with financial face after financial face that make way for vague nights. And so, these neutral ghosts take over when we sleep/they sleep. Impeccable in their quiet dresses, vacant for any emotion to inhabit them/us. Never will they reach any coffins. They escape cages of rational thought while remaining in this state of blank subtlety often required of extraterrestrial input. The unfamiliar shouldn’t look too much like a soft-eyed melody, obviously you can’t trust what is very beautiful.