Fragments of a letter, of text messages and of Clementine Morrigan’s zine “Love Without Emergency”, video clips from a phone, names of the sounds are soundtracks created by writing.
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the presence feels like)
real villany lay in
have lost ”it”
Nothing special happened, but still I feel completely different
I think of the harsh tongue on the back of my palm
The twist and turns.
Do not ask me to calm down
But deep down, below the surface, is my want, my want to want, my want to act, my want to desire
let it lead me
you could undress yourself
in the dark desert
I will destroy the house
lying on the same carpet
becomes a carnivorous plant
About when you put your eyes closed and can be anywhere
About having your eyes open and being able to be anywhere
About being in many places at the same time
I want to be the last
all my life something to run into a burning house
whether the significance is significant
no more taste in the morning
I want to touch something rough with my tongue.
I try to talk without breathing
I try to breathe without talking
Some part of ”it” stayed wild.
Knows about excitement
(Hello /her name/. To exist.
Things, wich are not
I’m writing now
the way you keep loosing
pouring gasoline on a fire
spill over and explode
terrified of my
which has never happened
There are things for which no words have been invented
Then it finally got. End helpless. Not my home.
Forced to somehow stop.
Something kind of festive. Liked everything as suddenly as possible.
Inside my head, everything ends in some kind of catastrophe.