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The ∞, 46

floors. I think from the morning, when our gaze was not far away in the World of Ideas,

(that counts, it is a pure abstraction, we do not look anywhere then, and the line connecting the world black centers and infix in our eyes that not watch what they watch, but bounced just in the direction of some wonderful abstraction, and transparent, transparent as to obscure in the eyes who watch obscene inscriptions on the walls, on tables, the despair of those latent , who, leaning, listen and do not listen, write and do not write, hold and do not hold that the voices prevail in these areas to the point of eliminating the task of mold and moisture s infiltrates throughout the day between the knuckles of a shaky tower, a block was added, I suppose, without doubt, one way or another, disposes Slowly and inexorably)

he remained mostly fixed on the ground in a tight bend and dry in the extreme. At our feet, in gray tracks, tarry outside. And I do not know why, except that these spaces enclose us, and we fall back to earth like a storm flap rain suddenly and slapped hopes. Artificial soil. The soil is neutral with no color, I wonder what is on his own, to be as invisible to the eye, as long as they are fixed upon him, was born on filthy industrial waste which, in part, is slowly dying after all a pond huge stink ambient air, color the dreams of yellow (for years and years I spend here, I've never been able to print on my retinas color undecided)

and when he looked away, trying with a desolation Another possible texture, there was no modulation of the world, only the gray concrete stairs and indifferent, whose corners were threatening falls, and in places, the asphalt and threatening reddish, covered with cigarette butts that idle hands they had rolled themselves, a breath had passed, and now slowly decomposed in puddles, and dotting the desert, unpublished drawing constellations and lame, unfinished worlds, abandoned by a careless creator before it has even been fully designed, without scale sketch of a dream fraying, defeat

Circles and waves of chewing gum, spit out and crushed that stained the retina.

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The ∞, 45

Erosion. The world wears. By the surface. Strata less tenable friable stone no longer support the ongoing clashes or shocks. We did not finish, we do not end up never to get out of this hell, going down to the limbo of this confinement and escape, and this world choked, and choking this, we never finish, no hope we will never again, and there will be nothing else to do, once they reach the bottom, if we do, watch the slow consumption of a cigarette smoldering on the moist soil of the night, before the heavy finish does not overwrite it.

What is complicated, certainly, is to determine what mechanism produces on us the most intense wear. One must imagine

Walker Evans, American pierced pain of the Great Depression, leaning toward the ground, bent, no doubt, and collecting the smallest details of a world scale, looking in the asphalt and bitumen the heat intense summer made it almost glow, almost viscous, possible traces of a passage, and defeated the strands of our business, and achieving one of its most incredible shots of silent for a moment that overwhelmed won . And looked toward the ground, staring into the footprints useless and idle, to shrink from this world full of rebuffs him, like all others, received the full force, these traces in the dust fleeting impression that alone would transmit a steady hand and yet, beyond huge day, comes onto our retina.

Plots uprooted from our visit to the world, that as much as it disintegrates and crumbles under the ninety-six clashes that each of our parts will impose, in turn, requires us to insidious and persistent destruction. Our mark is not certainly in the loose soil after rain, which supports our work imperfectly, but the trace of our presence there will be kept longer than necessary to bring a new storm, even more ruthless than the last. We bow down a bit in the rain, by a reflex bad I can not explain. Cons brambles which are gradually invading the way, some of our coat pulls, discards, and the tiny bit of material that is removed we will find its place on the asphalt shining a desperate shot by Walker Evans.

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The ∞, 44

Distortion. Time and space, without doubt, not resist. It is highly implausible that we would go out free at the same time course and that the elastic resistance of nightmares do not come back as violently as we try to keep them away. The day is spent in frenzied stretch these stairs, in which words resonate and make incomprehensible meanings, which must not yield. Do not turn away, even if you hear your name called in these sound spaces. To believe that the breakaway is unpredictable, we can not be sure of anything, that our fate is highly unlikely ... Polyphemus we look there's eye that we have not drilled, in our haste, our unpreparedness? How have we forgotten to do?

Where is Odysseus, and how, without his help, would we hope to win out?

Our flight is slow and slower, as if our movements, by the irresistible force of some magical potion that we breathed in the dust chalk, were arrested in the spring, and then we started to descend the stairs in the morning light, we will not get down at nightfall, after the last light of dusk are extinguished, in-flaming . In the deep night, while we escape. Where is Odysseus, and his assured and reassuring possibility? It is possible that in our misfortune, we are alone in this staircase ∞, and that nothing happens, nothing it continues, there is for us to pursue our own shadows that our own shadows and our own anxieties, distorted and distorting. It is possible

that our world is empty and finite.

It is possible, I am afraid that the concrete surrounds us is the only source of our gray and indifferent world. That our nightmares are our shadows projected on the walls of indifference, that no Cyclops does not concern us in our flight absurd, his one eye fixed on us, we have failed to break through ... But where is Odysseus and his possibility?