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The closing eye

I see myself in my projected shadow. A shadow bigger than my body, because it's me and everything else I've ever lived. I cover my face and with it, the shadow. My memory enregisters what I am and what I do. And in the light, I fade away.

Light as an impression of what I was, a colored intensity, the color of white fire expanding on the former me. What remains is always a sensation or an open mouth. What remains is an intimate and intense impressionist game. Color that is made up of shadows and other lights. In total darkness, the sound propagates each of the points in which I see myself, atoms in a random walk.

I reconfigure myself in time and space. My mouth is scream, despair, suffocation, silent song, whose texture is as big as the memory I carry. What remains is memory as a sensation. A dance where what we see is what comes from ourselves.

From the dark, only impressions.