page de route 22
pour l'exposition queijo com goiabada
Violet, Anvers
I’m leaving.
I can’t stop thinking about you, now, right now. I think of you again, now, right now. I want to stay here, in the present, thinking of you again, now, right now. Be there in the instante-já, start again, start again, start again, start again, start again...
I eat your contents, but it’s your container that intrigues me. I hold you, you hold me. I find it hard to throw away your leftovers. Because what’s left of you is what I touch first. Your acidic color, your envelope, it’s the first thing I see of you. Your contents dilute in mine, we mix, we transform, we become other, we want to be other, to be thing. I don’t know. Maybe we blend too quickly. Your sweet-and-sour taste and biting jaw confuse me. But that’s okay, I like this state of becoming, where everything is becoming, where everything can become everything. I don’t know.
Eat with your eyes, see with your mouth. My fingers intertwine in you like knots impossible to undo. My skin becomes translucent, slimy, melting into your surface, my surface, our surface. We become fluid, liquid solid, melting ice, solid liquid, we improvise, we consume each other. We’re undead, mummified to life in the making, we’re silence, vapor, we’re it.
We’re back.
