one room is never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant

everything is hidden behind it. the noise, the motion. a ghost

that you cannot name. this is not about what we see, but the

unknown, that lurks. maybe you are the lurking. the lurker.

some fractions of noise coming through the walls. not those

walls, the walls of the image. identity has shifted your focus

towards further within, and you see right through the skull.
another version of the present. how many there are is beside

the point. we must find how many we are. one colour is

designated, sacred, ancient, weighing the lies. the truth is

collapsing.
whoever said the eyes were the windows of the soul never

pried any door open. you can walk in there. get trapped, settle

inside, forever. or come in and out of it.
this is not about what is there. so much is concealed, we have

no time for the there. there is gone already, as soon as you

touch it. the shadow is denser than the light. particles know.

you got it all figured out without knowing. what you thought

was a question is a statement. there is a skeleton under the

stairs. its spine was broken. by the weight of all those who

climbed up. towards fuck only knows what. they didn’t.

know. they still don’t. only you do, and you don’t know it.
one room is never without precedents. you must fracture

them. make your way across the fields that bear only remains.

under the ground is the seed. the latent monster. one room is

never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant. one room is

never new but you can start it all over every time you speak.

every time you say.
you won’t find the zero. but you can create it.
the more void you try and represent, the denser your matter.

how can a blank eye overflow? a blank eye is zero.

overflowing is the task of the infinite. zero’s contrary. but no

eye is truly blank. even a dead eye is not blank. do you

believe the last thing one sees before they die is recorded in

the vitreous humor?

(Emma Wolf Deraze 2008)