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A form of meditation. The embarrassment of formless time.
You turn around and see the ravaged faces of people, immobile like statues, petrified.
On stage, among the smoke, black-clad priests raise their arms and bring them down like a cleaver onto the guitars. Provoking our pain. Slowly.
Only apparent boredom, boredom that is beneficial. It stimulates the brain to work better. Requires an effort to understand. But you can understand, and it has its reward.
In the two hours of infernal chaos, the brain ignites, like an engine that has overexerted, while the body freezes, dying in that obscene paralysis. The entrails vibrate, I feel them vibrating. And I feel physically penetrated by the sound. Down the throat, digging into the eardrums.
The ears itch, the synapses pant to reach the other dimension of this music. Alien, different. Without rhythm, without form? No, greater rhythm and form. You must widen the bed of your thoughts to let this river flow.
It could have lasted a minute or a millennium. You can't say how many songs, perhaps three. In memories, it quickly becomes an indistinct jumble of sidereal visions. You do not have the strength to harbor within you such a gigantic cataclysm.
You endure it, lose yourself inside it. You drown.
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