A word for Guillaume Ferran's musical delicacy here: This world is full of visual wind. Pastel minerals and all that jazz. Sound quarrels with space. The stone is teeming with human voices, humane thoughts. But he brings a throughline. A clarity of purpose to the evocative building blocks of culture put in place here. Nature is not a phantasm - it is a constant object of animated dialogue. Breath after breath. All we need do is listen.
Jusant does not care for the pain of the ascension. All it sees is a dark passage - the colours held within. Good. Dwell too long and you lose sight of what truly matters: Our toil, imagined or otherwise, will always bring us closer to shape. Memory is nothing but fickle, watery matter. We bend and love leaks. The dead and the unborn watch us. Time ebbs and flows in my body - this house of all houses.
Storm gathers. This other place. This unmoored Babel. It's not coming back. Our efforts were in vain and only we remain. Waiting for rain to hit the shore - soaked by association. That kind of primeval sensation software could only recreate in the aggregate. But that's the beauty of memory. There isn't a single drop of rain in Jusant. Yet here I am.
Souvenirs d'une éclaboussure.
Jusant does not care for the pain of the ascension. All it sees is a dark passage - the colours held within. Good. Dwell too long and you lose sight of what truly matters: Our toil, imagined or otherwise, will always bring us closer to shape. Memory is nothing but fickle, watery matter. We bend and love leaks. The dead and the unborn watch us. Time ebbs and flows in my body - this house of all houses.
Storm gathers. This other place. This unmoored Babel. It's not coming back. Our efforts were in vain and only we remain. Waiting for rain to hit the shore - soaked by association. That kind of primeval sensation software could only recreate in the aggregate. But that's the beauty of memory. There isn't a single drop of rain in Jusant. Yet here I am.
Souvenirs d'une éclaboussure.