There's a system And in this system a mixture of genera and species Both are  simple collages The teeth of one The chromosome of the other The vital functions of some The sexual appetite of others No one knows where it came from. Not when it's over. They are, however...  standard questions Where's it coming from? When will it end? They each have their own meaning Almost all questions  make sense Senses  integrated into this system  and who make this system The only question  uncoated  is Who am I?

A dirty clothes joke

Meandering then!

The flesh must be preserved intact

There's a system.

And in this system
a mixture of genera and species
Both are
simple collages
The teeth of one
The chromosome of the other
The vital functions of some
The sexual appetite of others
No one knows where it came from.
Not when it's over.
They are, however...
standard questions
Where's it coming from?
When will it end?
They each have their own meaning
Almost all questions
make sense
Senses
integrated into this system
and who make this system
The only question
uncoated
is
Who am I?

There are also sentences that have a very low range meaning, but usually float in the language like :

"I gave you an appointment, but you didn't show up"...

A simple radio button makes it possible at any time to be connected and to perceive all these words, these conveniences, these banalities of the everyday life, but also these groans of agony, cruelty, joy; these grunts, these songs, these sufferings; a whole collection of sounds. It is an important activity between beings to turn this knob and produce or make these sounds heard - never silence.

She's not the only one. There's footage coming through, too, but we don't know why. The images, we receive them. Since we have existed, we have received them without asking for them, without ever really wanting them. Sounds too, but we have learned to utter them in our turn. While images, no. We don't make them. We are the image. We are the pixels. We form it. Without us, there is no image. But always sound.

Above all, don't look for a single meaning; I hate thematic works.

Blind, we could only hear and we would know that there is such a thing. others, similar to us, just by hearing them.

When I see, I don't know that I am myself in the picture; that I am the image... passive. The image is dangerous because it is passive. The image of oneself is a passive dream; sound, a resonance of reality, practical information, the relief of active thought. The images of our lives are nothing but swindles, it would seem.

However, I feel existing when I see myself at the heart of this iconographic scrolling so easily accessible, technical and dummy like a cinema montage; when I can reduce myself to a dogma, to the spectacle of an entertainment, to a family, to an entire social universe. I would like to fight against that, but SCRAP without saying anything, without issuing a single order - does he ever do it? - seems to dissuade me from doing so with a caress. Flattery from a collage of laudatory images. Yet I know that when I come to this point, summed up, disguised as a dogma, an entertainment show, a family membership, I am a wreck and not a person. A blissful spectator of my passing time, I am a wreck. As a regular member of a family circle, of colleagues or friends, I am a wreck. I'm a wreck. thinks not. I don't... follow not.

Piece by piece, the human group takes me apart and puts me back in my box. Tomorrow, we'll have to rebuild everything. I am this beautiful castle taken to pieces, clean and detached, but I am also its opposite, an amalgam of broken toys. Of this, SCRAP doesn't say anything. That's probably why my love is so weak, so little... there now or only in the form of an unstable feeling. Its insipidity doesn't really bother me, even though I feel that everything I feel could rise higher, faster and less softly to the surface. Sometimes I think I can reach it. It seems to me that I am already there and in some ways I am. Yes, I am deep and shallow. Confusingly, a landmark tells me that other, more intense feelings still exist somewhere, despite the uniformity of rigour, and even, that they could last a lifetime, such as hatred for example, or euphoric denial of reality.

Tenacious. I like to live like this. Not knowing what's keeping me alive or for how long.

One day, we went to this bar where there was a hologram of Marilyn who was rehearsing song clips over and over again. A friend told me she was bugging out.

It's because of an old machine, a kind of visual jukebox that still works with cd-rom, but it doesn't matter. It even gives a certain cachet to the virtual, the bug, right? That way, it doesn't look as if she's really dead. As often happens, it's the imperfection that makes the style.

As for me, I'm in the process of resolving the conflicts of desire...I replied. The flesh must be preserved intact; do not want to change anything of others. To pass through, yes, intact; without falling, without perishing, without blowing a word of its passage.

Marilyn was a public figure of the female gender, I think. We even read that she was an icon of the female gender. Some kind of symbol, I think.

Of course, there were other bars where holograms worked better, where the readers were newer. But we liked to go to this one. We were used to it. The "retro" mode suited us well.

Elsewhere, there were other words uttered, other songs, other mental spaces that you could feel between people. It was much more. It was more at the cutting edge of technology, but we understood each other better here, in this somewhat out of fashion setting.

Elsewhere there was a song that said something like... « IThere's something floating in the air". I heard it once. The beginning of the lyrics marked me, but I don't remember the rest.

The scratches on the CD made it easier to understand what these old songs were about in the background, even if we could never hear the rest of it. In the end, it said more than if we'd had all the words. It was for all of us, once again, a landmark. We could have said a lairBut I wasn't sure at the time whether the expressions heard phonetically could still have several meanings in those moments.

Anyway, it was late. The music had become too loud. As always at this hour, we couldn't hear each other anymore...

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