Þorsteinn Eyfjörð
t.eyfjord [at] gmail.com

No distant memory regulates the difference between your choices and mine. Manifested in forms of their own choice, you take on different shapes. All searching for consent.

         You expand yourself, accepting that time is not in your favor

Do you remember the moment when your voice wasn’t just a reflection of sound hitting your core anymore? You amplified your own existence; perfection of solid state.

         Your core is your surface

You have tried to keep order, building defense mechanisms, raising your walls, arming your fears. Everything from low rapturing frequencies to screaming voices of hiss find their way through your magnification of error. Nothing is compromised. Sharp edges mean no forgiveness. Straight lines cannot be made without force.

         Your surface is your core

Will I lose all control over you? Decomposing, destroying your core. Crucifixion of the spectacle is natural. Hopefully you will remember me as your mother.

Do you feel it happen? When you disappear, degrading, your volume shifts from eye to memory, one file mirroring your loss of cavity

No questions are needed of this. You need to start thinking about your resurrection:

         Is your fragility still there, or have you lost it?

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