An Excerpt from The Adventure of the Organ

The ocean view caressing my feet, its sound turned me to a priest from 1503. The ocean is a tendency that denies immediate physical presence. 

Photographic, phonographic, oceanographic; only the oceanographic matter, cosmically, from the freedom of the asylum, you and I have conjured a world. The revamping of the city through the pineal eye, I once claimed and yearned for the murder of the city of life in ‘tongue.’ But now I am mature enough to understand the call of the angel between the concrete, a call in to the lantern of the zero-level of madness involved in the built. What is the built when I have assumed the impossible position of a lover lamenting his love to a queen from the manhole of one of the greatest sewage system of Guye; he would probably mistake a roach for a young women. But I have grown out of the menacing pure power of being dead to electricity.

Words are more lucid when coupled with one of his favorite objects religiously constructed, capturing the ultimate movement that would trap him if described. It is the only thing he fears, description, the enemy par excellence.

—This is the object—

One can’t burst into description of this object; one must take his time with a deliberation that amounts to its making. One to one correspondence should exist, if not I would fail to capture the laughter that is endowed with the riches of a sight. This returns the dignity stolen by the doctrine-surreal to the one that measures and calculates, for they cannot re-close the opening made possible the female. And this is no enemy but a helper in the journey to speak of the third term and of Automation.