Natas Inn, Oslo
Text by Tiril Hasselknippe
Let me disappear. The weight of your sentience darken the sky. Desire is a brigde.
These words are contracts. World objects and things. We decided what is was by
all the things it was not.
Escape this horizon. I live in the envelope. I live in the contract of the specified. I
am folded in several times. No place I would rather be. Favour clarity. The
formation fits into a structure. There is a start, middle and end. They know where to find me.
I am either at the start, middle or end.
Distorted views. Big wishes. A weak and transient effect. A friendly place. A strong
sense of the gap approaching. Gaps are lots of real estate on the far outskirts of
the contracts. Wastelands and shores.
A sapient in search of the gateway looks out onto the open field. No lines or points.Yet.
Better move before the lines and points catch up. Pronouns are knives. The gaps are too
obscured to spot by retinal activity alone, you really need all the
senses to pick up their location. The altitude and longitude is recast. Again.
Soft tissue fuels deconstruction. If privilege stays in its new location it will turn
violent. The only choice is to keep shifting. Turn it up.
The guardians are not happy. Nuke the gaps and fill with cement. Asphalt. Material
choice is key. Deconstruction as at best a waste of resources and at worst an act of war.
The gaps remain. Hence all the points and lines.
The sound of my body is a trickling creek over by the right hand side. Broken pipes.
Shifts inside the wall. Brooklets or rivulets. Chamber this event.
A low degree of reverberation. Guard this.
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