The consumerism of images. Trace residue of surrealist creation buried in the sands.
Now, at the edge of the desert, the light of the image withers away.
“The man who cannot visualize a horse galloping on a tomato is an idiot," they used to say, but the tomato, that brilliant Object, is sand these days, and nothing can be said about horses that won't fall like dry hissing to the listener's ears. Nevertheless, you walk through the sands. ➼ choose your path for the sheer joy of it as almost everything has been said and made and sold ➼ make words make love to one another, like that time in days of yore, before they were sand, when a sewing machine and an umbrella had their rendez-vous on an operating table ➼ they also used to say to "believe in the future resolution of these two states, dream and reality, which are seemingly so contradictory, into a kind of absolute reality, a surreality, if one may so speak" if that's of any consolation? A rite of shared surrealist creation, approximately 30 minutes long. One ending, several million possible surrealist poems on your way there.
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