Enter the Void.


Everything hurts. The silence, the furniture that squeaks on the top floor, hurt. I drown in a watery light. I feel nothing more than that sting. Something tells me not to write. Do not give shape to what should only disappear. Flow to a stream, melt. Salt. I am absolutely aware that any act will be followed by nothing. There will be no thread, just random stumblings on an infinite carpet, full of folds.

A few hours later, despite the darkness, there seems to be nowhere to run. There is no place free of human beings, nor of their canine slaves, nor outside the reach of their electromagnetic emissions. There is a void out there, but it is unreachable.

This vacuum, is almost comparable to that which exists inside a bag of meat.


Fake Reality




Nobody wants to believe that there is no reason. Everything has to be explained. Nobody understands that someone can kill just for killing. What is fiction and what is reality?

Time stretches like an elastic, making every second unabashed like a grown river. The path of the hours is unreachable. The sky is gray, the same from prisons, buildings or forests. Nothing is sheltered in anything. It seems as if the light travels through the rooms like a dog head down and furious. Neither does the shadows reject that light. It is an omnipotent fluid, inflated with disdain.