Light silently wraps around stone, reaches a window. That’s where it founds its kingdom, not caring who, from some corner, was there to praise its revelation. Inside, someone tries out a formula, arithmetic she barely knows by heart, and forces her body to return this unsettling clay embrace. No part of what happens in things’ secrecy could be called on by chance. Just like that they’re taken in, offered up to the dizzy rhythm of time.
Below the roof held by no sky, life plays out in another way. An underground river with sultry shapes, a river that can barely be made out in the penumbra. What shines inside, lime, sand, soft curves that take in, like a belly, sleep, mysteries of flesh, it feeds the raging midday of balconies; sparkling sea coming and going right below, steady see-through rainfall outside. Inside, measurements will go on until the end, long delays between numbers and little clever gods.
Eyes haven’t lost sight of light’s geometric shifts for a single second, like hunter and prey, or dowser and the incessant call of water. Just like that, dimly, night, alert ear. Light is barely a ghost against jagged walls. Soon it will make off with the window, the roundness of a glass, the sharp slant of a table. The sea will stick around, its music galloping in black space. A sea dreamed up like things beginning to fade, like the lackluster shine of a compass, like hands... It’s true, in the end only hands are left, their bone-like stillness, proof there was something, not big, not little, opening itself up to night, taking place with no witnesses, taking place—simply—like light, or the stair not drawing out the staircase, dying, perfect, cold, in front of your eyes as they get switched off.