He was a poet, musician, and warrior (talents of the lower strata), someone who relied on luck and who harbored an ill temper.

a phantom machinery of power is set in motion, tracking the imagined movements of a being not of this century (or even the last)

Having each been expelled by the rancor of decay, the discharge, which has submerged the places of origin in tarns of hunger, dejection and desolation, they arrive here—

Does not the sound itself occur in the first place to dispel darkness (lullabies)? Or better yet, to tell us that there is no such thing as darkness, only very low degrees of light…

What is this intense mode of perception? Inhumanly quick, hyper-sensitive, detailed, precise, and relentless as a machine. And yet there is also a blurriness; it stutters, with a certain personal touch of humor and free-association, like it’s alive.

That a certain improvisatory combination of photos found on the internet would lend itself to the generation of “hyper-collages” brimming with apocalyptic themes cannot come as a surprise.

Are these strange contraptions put on one’s head someone else’s eyes?

These miniature replicas of a culture’s highest death-checkpoints seemingly restore the beautiful insanity of a utopian/dystopian hour.

The old self will not survive the extreme temperatures of this remoteness

The operational logic of paganism is such that when a certain local god fails to deliver its graces, one can always switch to an alternative deity