Between the terrible clarity of the sun, and the secret power of the night, a fault-line. Dusk: neither the bright sun of madness or the black hole of God, neither a messenger or a channel, but the infinity of their absolute interconnection — which is surely also to say, their complete disintegration.
Between growth and decay, learning. Instruction crosses between, voyages outwards, away from the familiar. An exodus.
Between saying and doing, an operation without a name. Between the general formula and the singular revelation, the unimaginable — an alterity which effaces itself, a dangerous and uncanny law of bifurcation.
Haunted by the infinite, the disjunction allows a momentary glimpse.
A screen or window, upon which an invisible writing inscribes itself: this crystalline, pulsing thread between the sense of sensation and the sense of signification. A klaxon.
A transistor hums, a soul awakens: the message interrupts itself, the medium fragments.
An infinite (verbal?) disjunction: an imagination which realizes, a reality which imagines — an absence which haunts the living, the troubling presence of the dead. Science and vivisection, culture and decay. And between these two streams, in the middle of the two foci?
Time is bifurcated, the light by which light amplifies itself: playing, dancing, rippling… And beyond this mirrored prism, a signal lingers.
Beneath memory, a message, a crystal screen. Anarchy enthroned, pure love and infinite possibility at once.
Beyond power, humility.
What is needed now? Nothing but a split, a hinge — the tiniest crack…