William Basinski
The Disintegration Loops III

About the Passage of Time, and Destruction

Nothing happens. The mirror cannot speak, but it records every slight physiological change, an invisible wrinkle, the skin that falls; and before you can do anything about it, the end credits roll. Screwed by the holes and scratches, what remains Inside. At the bottom. Down. It loses the original melody, becomes a rasping hiss, until it dies.

It happens invisibly, believe me. We devour what surrounds us, gnawing to the bone, and what's left in our mouths are few shreds of withered air in the middle of a white hole. You don't notice it, but it happens.

Evening. The sky is dark and cold. Still a small glimpse of sunset, a distant pink, like a slow goodbye. From the ground, the fumes of burning ruins still rise.