. N O I S E . O P E R A .
the amount of matter does not fit the expectation of realism of those who come to catch bits of experience. you've caught nothing, if the opera did not acted defectively. i really mean this: if the opera works as a quasi-perfect clock, you will not feel anything. it will be recorded as a void matterfall, a nothing-nature, a complete self-blackening outcome within a black environment, the darkest image ever dared, the factorial veiling, the thickening of obfuscation, ephemerally abysmal. such opera are always kept apart from profane eyes. you come to a gate upon which is engraved the maxim: abscond yourself. the stardom comes decapitated, blinded, peeled, slaughtered, powdered. they come as one could come to an opening on a dead planet: as an overdue, desolate forerunner.
you've never suspected that the blackening blackness was such a creative matter. you've never confessed yourself that debris could have been so civilization worthy. you perhaps felt an odd nuance of concrete that asked for its own destruction. the further civilization whispers such odd invitations. the next civilization is the one dead yet indeed. it has never been issued with birth or foundation. that civilization looms ephemerally in a diaphanous landslide, degrading bit by bit, delivering waves. the OSC blooms behind unintelligible streams.
you entered a building that promised you to be entertained in an astonishing show; yet no one received you at the entrance, no desk, no informative diagrams. just matter, slow self-degrading matter, with its own flavor, losing bits, emitting scents. why this invisible people have arranged such a show? yet you suddenly remembered: no one invited you; you slipped into there as a result of a masked magnetism. you came to light indeed, yet the darkest image inflamed you.
waves thick as things. the spectre of noise pursues this obfuscated aim. this is why sound is so related to destruction. and the noise-city is an ellipsis in the age of cities. noise hided itself in decades, in minerals, in ears - the otoacoustic emissions, the muscles emissions, the [w]hole range of activity of the industry of ghost noise that the body actually is - from the very beginning, to hear is not to hear.
the noiser says: my sound is never how it sounds, that's why my instrument is the drill, and your ears the concrete that the drill is grinding. thus the wall and even the floor must fall: this imperative is so mute.. yet it is so looming. the noise opera accelerates the inert teeming of things through waves, the freakish nonmatter-mimicry of matter, the pseudo-biology of phonetics forms: forms that are moreover data, that show diagrams, that threaten things, then blossom again.
you smell the air is so fragrant, electric.. predicates are gathering in your nose. that's because reality is losing them. as an anti-lucretius you are seeking interstices where matter doesn't have the dream of things but a cyclone of looming destruction. time is the loudest, mute noise: with such a long wave it blusters above the crust, the nth parts that are leaving.
