Through the infinite circle of glass and rite that carves the world into a cold and gray quadrant... There is no dilemma to silence the inquiry: where does the liturgy of effort end and the autophagy of the fragile soul in prediction begin?
The line drawn with an iron chalk, in a semantics of loss and of glory. The error is not in the shot, nor in the mistake, but in confusing martyrdom with a possible victory.
It is upon the lens that blurs with the warm breath of a near-death experience, that one can delight in eternal doubt: whether the impulse felt in the chest is what still moves or if it is just the vacuum of any given afternoon that slowly dissolves me.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 4:18 PM UTC
Through the infinite circle of glass and rite that carves the world into a cold and gray quadrant... There is no dilemma to silence the inquiry: where does the liturgy of effort end and the autophagy of the fragile soul in prediction begin?
The line drawn with an iron chalk, in a semantics of loss and of glory. The error is not in the shot, nor in the mistake, but in confusing martyrdom with a possible victory.
It is upon the lens that blurs with the warm breath of a near-death experience, that one can delight in eternal doubt: whether the impulse felt in the chest is what still moves or if it is just the vacuum of any given afternoon that slowly dissolves me.
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