Using balloons make me remember how automatic and indifferent my own existence have become to myself; the balloons happen to be the trap for the very spirit of life, my crying, my melancholy
The cosmic body is contagious. Touching the balls, a man inflates with fear.
The obvious erotic conscious. Binds generations and bursts under strong pressure by third force.
A chairman walk, climb, stay and breath. He wants to care and carry the whole world but but there is enough space only for inhalation and exhalation.
Breathing, beating, fatality.
Searchingin yourself in the noise of being. Looking for disparate parts. Eating yourself.
