the basis of art is a qui-vive between imagination and reality where the ages are not equal and the sexes indifferent

this tension of pure life between hallucination and disorder is very strange and hard to think about

between images and nothingness there is therefore this vertiginous precipice which attracts us and a single footbridge which allows us to cross it

it’s like a dream that no one dreams, a mirror of fire on which no reflection is deposited

things transmigrate there from caterpillars to butterflies in a stream of images each time our sexes fit together shivering in the white cotton of old black beds from another time

no god guards this rickety footbridge above death, so perilous that few wise men risk it because to cross it you have to strip your hands and seize it completely naked

which would explain the extreme scare of Haruka Akasako before the enigma of this fascinating mirror upstream of all meaning