Piecing Breezes

Language emerges from inside the body, from inside a mouth, a head, the heart. And so language pulls out these insides, making them outsides: words or things for instance, or new beings. And so it crawls out onto reality, language, that autumn it was hung in a room.
A number of blue outsides, a tight aqua forest. Here it stands for a moment, doesn’t grow, tells a bit. Surfaces do that. Dense stories, they move upwards only, indifferent to the horizon. And so these imprints can be anything, just like language. They can emerge from an inside which birthed them like a plastic womb, congealed them like cocoons. Spoke them with a wet mouth. What is found on the inside, still unshaped, is brought into the outer world to be heard. A flexible alphabet of wax. Partly menacing, partly ridiculous how everything, no matter how sturdy it seems, certainly decomposes (a joy for the egos behind anything meant for infinity). To actually aim for decomposition, to perceive it as an option rather than a destruction, because what is no longer visible still exists. Does it ever show that this particular scent of a neck filled you up. Some moments are thicker than others, some eyes open enough for you to rest in them, a whole existence of invisibility piling up between the pointy lines of reality. Please enjoy how the world is dispersed among us as a world, new leaves and words that stay in some gazes for a while before sloshing out. How cute, this fate of everything, to alternate between being inner and outer. Earliest of all: the liquid and its entire warm spirit before absolute luck throws it into an instant. Who actually knows if they prefer to be water or a decision? It is said that we rub off: the amount of drops leaving the inside of a loved one, the amount of moments where these drops are Your Dream. And so we share an orbit, becoming poison in the same jaws, waves and ears amongst each other. Spit out your holes on your fingertips, here they can wake up and take hold l ike greasy messages without eternity. Warm ice, we swim on.

Text by Nanna Friis