We are what shattered language sounds like, tracing back what is held inside a map made of invisible and twisted lines: A wrist breaking. A memory. A lie. That’s how we learnt to time travel, through sound. We talk loud to forget what we have already forgotten. Retro. We talk loud to hide our sickness. Retro. Coming to it as one.
Only. Omnipresent. Ours.
We are what blood links look like.

A clue: Family.

We keep each other inside our own bodies. The close space of friction. Challenging the notions of what still nature is, still and outside of nature machinery.

We learn to harvest death flowers through magnetism.

We love only on nomadic and diasporic waves; onward, through detachment to land sometimes claimed as property, through the history of our own bones.

We are the creatures who will conquer death. Bored and tired. Like one conquers the empty space between the ears when someone pronounces a word that’s nothing more than a word.
Erratically.