loss, losslessness

In his Orphée, Jóhann Jóhannson sampled the voice from a polish number station that, throughout the sixties and seventies, syncopately reproduced numbers in a haunting, disconcerting fashion. A Song for Europa, it is called. Zwei, acht, null, fünf, sechs. ACHTUNG! One month today marks the passing of my grandfather, and never have I been in such

universal end (prose)

Part of the series on defamiliarization signed by the pseudonym Nikodem Lanci.

barcelona (prose)

the tired, the funny (prose)

(transcript) She, for many mornings since some irrecuperable point in time, would sit in her garden, looking; lost. There was exuberance in her eyes as she gazed nothingness with abandon. All of herself was in that act of looking. She would call for Clarita to bring her pen; for days on end she did this.

of the right types of nascence (prose)

(transcribed) He approached Sabros and felt an inexplicably nervous density. It was sadness, he was sure of it, but not any sadness. This sadness, such is the nature of its absolute absence, cannot chill nor hold by virtue of its forms, and one feels instead in some aeropause by it created, like orbiting a body

30, Dezembro (poetry)

It has been an odd year for me and most, and I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have met many wonderful figures here and shared Art that I love with you along with Art that I love making. I’ve never been too fond of writing about writing, as it often feels infatilising and dulled by harmless

17, Setembro (superlative ipseity, acht)

Forgetfulness has no worth by itself; it lacks an economy of space. Past our brutal archway of knotweeds and spruces, the pathways opened only to an abandoned garrison. Sucessive instants of nature hued the rubble with that superlative ghost of placeness and immortality, which is so rarely reflected in insomnia. The cabinets had illegible files

8, Setembro (loquat, violet, Bèla)

My artifice was underacted. Only when the sycamore expired did I gloss its brief sussurus. My muffled blood takes to the bludgeon of evening and, dry, proceeds to the integration. Sound has since slogged through five varieties of despair. A scream would be mute by the force of merely being. I take note of things

1, Setembro

She now oft forgets. Memories are volatile, as is the foam of waves and the formication they leave debossed on the shore. September reminds her of wasps, meadows, heat. I’m reminded of jags and seagulls or a deformed field of ashfall. I’ve never heard her express fear of losing the common ropes; my name or

31, Agosto

“Books will give rest sometimes against the uproar of water falling and righting itself to refall filling the mind with its reverberation                    shaking stone.” William Carlos Williams, Paterson, Book Three (The Library) The inexhaustible becomes the forgotten. I abhor times of initiation and transition; this science of conjuring aphotic worlds is annealed by a silence which, by nature of