/ ro



You assume a certain air...
Just you and your juices, you walk on.
A territory gradually absorbed, it is only for atmosphere your advance.

Well-being equals having a life full of means, meanings.
Indirect, compatible, malleable,
adjustable, and forgettable.
Among others.

What does that mean?

You confidently mold it, only it seems that it molds itself,
however it pleases. Damn it! You continue.

Wellbeing and being well,
social status, achievements, dreams, things, check-ins
you are in

You look for evidence in others, compare it to your own.
There are certain distinct things that set you in your rightful place. Of course.

It has to turn out well.
You believe there is an intrinsic justice in the world,
that justice triumphs in the end,
that the wheel turns, inside out. For the better.


All your things, you need them,
you know them in their place,
which is your place.


You have somewhere to return to, they await you,
stand,
are part of you,
phantom limbs in a vicious circle of thoughts...


The props of your own life story,
you carefully arrange space,
draw the lines, calculate the distances,
stand among your things, see yourself between them.
Mentally, you’re online.


Your space is carefully punctuated by significant objects ‘til the gate.
There there’s a bit of a conceptual disorder.
Then there’s the place from which you leave.

Something follows you, something from your private space.
When you leave.



You draw with your hand in the air, here and there,
what’s left, beyond.
Gestures generate a space that belongs to you, momentarily.
Bonds you momentarily.


There are so many things to say.
We are surrounded by them.
You only have to bundle them up.
So they don’t slip through your fingers...

That’s why they sell things because people buy them.
Then they justify their choice.

You could be something else whenever you encounter a new thing.
in that public space full of things with obvious meanings,
it depends what you want. Whatever you do you’re too obvious.


Depends how you want to position yourself.

People march mind-controlled
mentally reciting their life stories and gathering
by glance objects to be props in their narrative.
Touch is confirmation, the story is true,
you gently caress one of the sea of objects,
its details are fascinating indeed.

If you gather things you lose yourself.
They climb under your skin they want to be you,
they want you to be them.

Perhaps one day you will dispose of them,
A ritual for disappearing unwanted thoughts.
If you don’t give them attention they disappear.
You need only think of something else.

Plastic bags are abysses in which things
disappear, like magic. Then they pop up again
when you least expect them, or not.


When talking about our things we never forget to justify their possession,
they are useful to us in one way or another.
Why do you still keep it? Maybe I’ll need it one day.
I need it for something...
I’m emotionally attached to it, it acts as a key towards certain memories.
Make up something on the spot.
It looks good regardless...


I’ve had many useful things,
that’s why it’s hard to relate to one in particular.
With a small thing you can get much greater results though.
It’s important to have a unified whole.

Things have their mysterious lives.
You can’t find it in a logical order.
We all have these things that disappear for days and then
suddenly reappear, as if they’d been there all along. You’ll never know their intentions.


It’s like it’s alive.

The power of things lies in their slowness.
Are you in a hurry? They’re so slow that you lost patience,
unless you’re a type of person who once he starts waiting
he can’t stop ...then you realize,
where you are.


The world possesses a perseverance and permanentness
that do not depend on our existence.

It is irritating, the feeling that that they are still here even
when you are not, when you are no more. You only think of yourself, really.
Discard another plastic bottle
in the woods and you’re even.

They are both materials and alive,
they seem passive and at the same time persistent,
they speak to you, but you can’t get through.
Don’t try to explain them, it’s pointless.


Pale objects wander to and from
Asking when you will be back,
when you’ll finally look at them.

How do you translate an object?

Things in themselves,
you merely grasp their outline.
Everything has a limit.

Things with which you relate,
to which you have a certain access,
compose a private space together with you.
Whether you want to or not. What you think doesn’t matter.


They have a distinct force holding you together.
It’s for your own good.
A voice was heard.


You’re surrounded by impressive surfaces
and that’s it. If you gaze too long at a surface, the surface also gazes into you...

You collect textures. Lacking objects.
You collect structures. Lacking you.
You’re already part of another’s collection.

People as objects.
Women as objects.
Pieces of objects. Only surfaces. Of people.

Palpable petable animals, in their place in your space. Meow.

Vegetation does what it wants, swallows you whole if you’re not careful.
And you’re almost never careful,
what the hell do you daydream about?


In the beginning strawberries were sweet.
That is how I remember them.
What happens between strawberries and snails is none of our concern.
You eat snails and strawberries while imagining eating strawberries.
Vital strawberries with traces of snails. They slide gently, gently on strawberries,
on lips, soft motion,
you are not what you eat,
nor is what you eat you.


You don’t belong to yourself. We belong to each other.
You mean to say you don’t depend on anyone/anything?
Nothing depends.

You are sitting at your desk, typing on your laptop
(I speak about myself as if about another I’m aware I don’t belong to myself).
You are sitting on a chair at the desk under the laptop which stands on a carpet.
And your clothes lie on you, and we all lie one on top of another.
We are at the same time close. To you, to me.
You don’t even realize what you’re involved in, then we stand in awe
of what has structured itself,
and this is owning to the fact that we all
have gathered here today.


Then you had an unusual dream. Different from all that came before.
And so you concluded that everything has reassembled itself,
somewhere outside the limits of your perception.


You think you are separate from the trash that you see.
Trash that sprouted more or less by chance.
The arrangement is random.
But as you sit and watch it you notice
un a space-time bubble,
you are there, “together” with the trash,
which is now part of you, because of your thinking of it.
Somewhere in the lower part of your body, your feet are sunk in it,
in the trash.
You’ve assembled yourself into it.


I had the feeling I was dreaming, I don’t understand anymore.
What’s this doing here?
Oh, just be present here, feel etc., observe the tensions, relax.

you’ve not been paying attention, something substantial has changed.
But you mustn’t know.


Direct access to reality has been erased.
You must find an indirect path.
It all goes deeper than it seems, so...
Something eludes you.
And will keep on doing so, better to do nothing.

An unnoticeable void joins the order.
What used to connect you is now
forgotten.
Forgetting also appeared by chance.


The feeling of uneasiness is here to stay.
It hides behind everything,
you can’t see them all together,
but you know them in their place,
so you sort of know yourself.
First, second, and third course. The rest is dessert.

We gently sway like two leaves, would be nice if it were in nature.
Natural. But it was just a garden.
We were gently swaying listening to the plashing of the snails.
That kept on slurping the strawberries. We hadn’t killed them yet.
They’re pretty cute.
Our swaying dance, or whatever you want to call it, is for them.

A glass.
The unsettling feeling that something eludes you.
Something always does, it’s what you don’t see.
The glass is half in your mind only,
the other half.
The other half of the glass
is not real.


Suggest something. Out loud so it seems real.
Something must seem real.
As you say.

In the dark, things hide,
seem fluid. You bathe in them.
They’re a bit dark though.
Unsettlingly dark.

The world of lost, forgotten things.
It was their choice.

The world of things disposed of. With them you yourself are erased from a story.
He was a normal character, too normal. I erased him.

Your world is forever affected.
Your world mingles with other worlds, of different durations,
to affect and be affected by.
Other worlds have already mingled with yours.
What you thought about yourself is changed. You have left existence for a while.


Early morning, blurry spots, zoom until form dissolves.
Small abysses frolic through the branches.

He was suspended like a balloon.
He held me by the hand so I didn’t fall,
next to me was a void of meaning, one step and you’re done for,
something had to ground me in the scheme of things.

You know how hard it is to reintegrate into the mesh of everyday trifles...
To pretend that...