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As the sun sets - and in the open sea - a man leans against the railing of a ship's deck. He looks down, thinks, focuses.
If the man is neurotic, even severely so, he will simply watch the waves, imagining how and with what consequences the self would dissolve into them.
If the man is psychotic, he will simply jump.
It is all very clear. And it is so from the beginning.
From when a warped sonata on the piano reiterates its phrases like a melody stuck in the grooves of a vinyl. And he looks down, thinks, focuses.
He observes and is observed. Drone tentacles tempt him from below and the voice of the crowd, the ratio of processed radio waves, hold him above.
Clinging to the rock of Scylla with eyes wide open on the whirlpool of Charybdis, seduced by Aristotelian metaphysics but with a forehead turned to the Platonic hyperuranion, trapped in the Comédie Humaine of neurosis dreaming of that (?) Divine of psychosis.
Modern classical colors shattered in drone blast furnaces, intolerable minimal depths drain the echo of noise broadsides à-la Ben Frost, the rending spleen of sublunar music boxes fades into the Elysian Fields of Musique concrète.
A record played on the long take of inhuman forces that find their profound reason for being in the human gaze.
As if the more flowing Basinski's primordial soup - that of "Shortwavemusic" and "The River" - was raised onto the canvas by the impressionist winks of Eluvium's "Copia".
As if Eluvium's impressionist winks of "Copia" were deconstructed and finally buried by the more flowing Basinski's primordial soup.
A man stands, balanced on the railing of a ship's deck. He looks down, thinks, focuses.
The whole air is already dimming/the clear blue sky returns, and the man closes his eyes.
He closes his eyes and...
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