Tender. They left and you see both of them dive underwater, the water is thick and their mouths make big, collaborative bubbles. Their mouths grow larger because of the breaths and the order of days no longer matters. A giant sponge fills a room to the brim. Living feels like squeezing yourself through the tight sponge tunnels but the pace suits you. Tender pushes. Familiarity meets the unfamiliar and suddenly you see Dutch houses in Indonesia. He's wearing a young girl's dress with an open back. The dress is black with white rims, made of soft, sporty cotton; it ties around the neck and reaches just so beyond the butt cheek. It might have some logo in the middle of the chest but you didn't see. They warn you about dangerous water creatures and toxic plants that inhabit the canals. Air feels moist, it's too warm for the season and buildings seem uninhabited. People whisper to each other on the streets, making deals you question ever coming true. Everyone has gone mad, most of us will not show up. They ask you how your conversations are. You answer in paintings. What language could ever accurately represent the touch of a hand or colour. You would have never thought aesthetics would matter to you this much. Few years ago. You feel the fold of the year, it's like a tongue you made out of dough yesterday and it reminded her of lips. Two tongues make lips; *tormenting twists of tassels*. Time fucks you up. You return to gazing at the sunset. Such comfort in the image. These sentences sit at the front of the forehead, they are blurry, you can't reach them, like a tiny fly on your glasses. You make the image because you can't reach them but you want to stay in touch but you don't care about being connected to them. It gives you pleasure to try to reach them. You just want to know they are there. Isn't that what the image does? It is. It's enough that I've seen you once, you'll stay in my head forever. Sometimes it feels like your body is so small and the globe large and heavy, sitting there on your belly, pressing tenderly. Your body under the weight of the world. Materiality presses against you and it's pleasant. What comfort there is in the sense of obesity, in the lack of horizon, just endless curves to caress? Just fullness; like, roll me around and I'll make some imprints with my body and this will make a drawing in the sand and it will get washed away and later I'll make another one. Sometimes life is just eating. Putting the stranger inside of oneself until it becomes familiar again but once it does it flows out of your ass. This ring is spun over and over again. It's funny it came to submission, it's not quite that, it's more like collaboration or to the least, being accessible, remaining open. Holes it is. Being a sponge. Filling a room. Allowing you to flow through me. You help me make the images. You see them too.

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