An unbearable heat melts the substance from its mold, offering the illusion of freedom.
A series of dissolvings, of meltings, begins. The body deforms, desperately seeking contact with itself. It’s a journey inward, full of returns — a past littered with the traps of repetition. The present seems to sink into the abyss of blackness. Ice cracks with a scream, opening fissures for fierce winds… I hear you, faintly. You blend into the background, but I feel you’re calling me. There’s a message. Thank you. I’ll be there at quarter past eight. I thought I wouldn’t get up — but she did. She turned on the light to look into the dark. Only when you expose it, it stops being itself. She wasn’t herself. She adjusted the sleeves just right, and I checked if the zipper worked smoothly. It did. Both ways.