¬ elewan / ContaKt-Digital Dysfunction





let me introduce you to a place, nowhere in particular and nobody knows where the light comes from.
this is the interim: not here not now, just a pale concept of what is & I can't understand it either.
i can't remember what s/he was called s/he might have been a dog a lover who cares because time prepares us to accept everything.

out along the fluorescent lights i found what i was looking for and i abandoned some preformed arguments, left some disorder behind and readjusted my understanding of *you*.
in a physical life there's always the body at hand - even if you're silent i can still see you. if you're silent here u simply disappear.
more things to be included:
images like when you looked up to them with your pale face:

she looks puzzled into her image mirrored on the screen, pixels made flesh...
i think it's ok that people (who just can't let the future go) become somewhat twisted, moulded like myself.
i just hang around and she feels slow, too.
the security cameras are always on, and the only response possible is way too complex: the efficiency of surveillance and control, it might work well for them....
the details are obvious: someone hides in the shadows and mumbles: remember the broken surreal imagery and then the room turns cold.

the replacement of visions does not offer escape from a culture which threatens to absorb the space where it takes place. their dreams crumple with them.
so much comes comfortably if you like the smoggy haze of hate, if you don't acknowledge but supercede the bricks which make your past .

see this figure abandoned, shining, with an obsessive attention to detail, quite a challenge for a slow target with and u see that the interaction of humans remains substantially chaotic: cubes of fear, cubes around
someone who's suffering, a cube remains and makes your past.

it is as if the place had been turned inside out to die.
a situation, when people are marching to the unknown places,
with cold faces and bodies,
and tomorrow, there will be people who walk without knowing who i am or where i go to, where i belong.
tomorrow i'll be somewhere else with a new identity, once again, scene over.

i'm convinced i still have credit, sort of environ-mental/synthetic emphasis. not one soul around i wait and try to explain, then try again;
this issue nagging me i go fucking mental and find it and go into more details concerning digital dysfunction.

previously my tour through the realm of the mechanics of signs and their subsequent reasessment
(details of public perception), seemed to reflect a wild chemistry.
theoretical dynamite i hear myself say,
credit on an account that has been lying in principle, plenty of these things happen here.

these are testing times for the post-PC phenomenon and it has given us some strange images creating an amazing new world.
there was, in front of me, a shift, a reform through confrontation,
the appropriate authorities prepared the most visible crackdown within a wave of independent thoughts.
taking one after another until they subside to the same thing again.
i was thinking about the grainy black and white screens and i felt it was to be in my head forever.

you show me that just one wiping demand buys the seeds.
and i see a similar glance from a little character who grudgingly acknowledges the small mistakes which draw us in like quicksand sucking softly on your legs...
this is what i had lost and what remains i thought and realised her real white sheets.
a face guard (occasionally measuring out raw characters) advanced another foot and she hacks her through details, changing the bits sticking out with some chunks missing.

somewhere else: places at the fore front there in a state of decay with fragments oozing out of a fictional world.
too often everyday is a potential void, distilled, the cause of it all. anxiety: a kiss from within without substance.

i hope you can maintain this image:
the inverse mirroring as sticky as boiling grease when i go along the fluorescent lights. see it through and let me know: i wasn't sure if what i came across was real and whether it will be the same when i have left.

start honing your territory, then develop lightweight and lukewarm functional demands of traditional bliss.
we seem to abandon our own past yet we often record a deja-vu, momentarily destracted by earlier impressions.
and then the recorded light of the sun becomes reality.

finishing off the previous week, i stop in time at the window and peer down the bank armed with security gates.
we generally just block anything unwanted that makes silly ideas come true, but in these dimly-lit corridors the outside world suddenly feels far away.
on the concrete floor soft drink cans breach the peace, references to the borders distinguishing private and shared.

it feels strange, there is a strong stench of smoke in this cold spot; we have to struggle!
already, she says slowly. five minutes later it becomes clear that all the dreams and ideals, are dead.
and within this sweaty atmosphere electric flickers concern both those inside and those on the surface, all the characters that come from different cultures.
well, okay, didn't we discover ages ago that our government has a need for ideology.
that is the real tragedy, what happens now triggers a desire for creating our own truth, but the connection is too slow....

once a month i look at the frozen land that stretches out into an empty distance from where
barely audible voices deliver nothing but a glimpse of a digitized future.

making out a sentence with a difference, shared with others, on sex:
he can hear the domestic chat, and a rating of sighs had him tapped for a surreal moment.

i guess the amount of rare metals that had been engineered into in her body. looking at her face i thought that i had a post-death fantasy, in fact, there is a whole crowd these days.

ink strikes the screen and we are 80% happy, quite remarkable. slowly counting disgruntled equipment, i seal the entrance to the world with a pair of huge dented pillars that resemble angry words.
it only takes a glance to see how exposed we are.

this is not a safe area and the floor almost seems MorseCode, lacking a beat. we are not on the outside yet.

three men sit and wave their books as they preach listen to the books; we can't
read the pages thickened by moisture, merely drawing in a sense of an imagined enemy.
very little is known: harmless enough but the uniformed personel capable of going badly wrong...
so as a public figure that dislikes the glare of a disintegrating hell
who can blame me for looking at the flash itself when we got stuck in this other dimension?
beauty and simplicity, the advent of cameras could make the city disappear.
somewhere near the tollhut we get a chance to capture parts of the last century, a little corrupted
and still no way out.
i didn't chose my life for defining myself nor do i want to find one reason for finding a picture of yourself that doesn't look natural but scary.

i get sick when i breathe in thousands of smouldering circuits, digging through rubble falling from underneath,
overwhelmed by a meagre sound extremely silent, exposing the imperfections ugly humans create.

The virus had spread today. Dressed-up as an M not an 0 it cloned towards the early evening.
Whatever it is, it's a situation where we're chewing our dreams like we did years ago, and the darkness on our characters resembles a sudden, shredded rearrangement of earlier impressions, (then in alphabetical order).

we come to a halt: green illuminations flash through the night. by the third week i begin to notice the more objective realities:
now they are mine which means i have to reconstruct them - not be horrified by them.
neither of us looks back to the ruins of the old world. we don't negate or try to forget the past.

the city is empty. misshapen and crump the horizon distorts the line shudders flexes in a response, but time runs out and i stand still, remain eluded, sleepy.

said same saw same called came left fed up with peoplepicturesplaces don't say might not help her count the days far away from here give go an other
before began same saw same said same place so take this
sat still for months in line don't fear most heads side by side just keep life light something often cold when used on your wanting.
the scent of her sweaty skin creeps through my mind. it touches me, arouses me without asking for it.

patience rules the never ending confrontation with human chaos. i'm stuck here, my skin is wearing off and i couldn't identify the day.
i remember an addition to my plans, another corridor filled with information, yet the details of the map cannot be trusted.
my feet pound the ground repeatedly, somewhere out there was a switch and i want it and come across another intersection,
dreamed of the latest news (injected by a needle), went up the stairs and fell. but that was a week ago. since then the power's turned off and it's hard to get somewhere when you walk and so you try to catch an answer, is this the word? - she just stood there.

a black river beyond the last houses runs through its concrete bed without a purpose. i hate this river...this place is just a copy of the once
open stream cleaning the rest of a mistake. i consume and adjust huge lists, because it's a moral high which lasts a few months and outside
the night spreads the graphic means of the city, inscriptions on doors and displays and signs and warnings and flashlights and colourful windows
stained with an electric flicker from channel13. i'm at the center of it, right in between the viewer's eyes on a more elaborate display, new clusters of images, words, frames, and figures...

i'm reading a book on something i recall - foul weather. you're going she says. a pigeonhole mood with removed contrasts - abstract, like the scarred and marked stones of houses.

i'm here, made from pieces of wood, made up a name for her and burned my lungs inhaling scent #7 ---
then i remember her vivid eyes. we would go mental and talk, allowing the time,
and i realised that when i do fall i should sleep, because it feels like surgery that runs its course.
sitting against a wall we begin to talk and find the nicest hour of the day ...
two categories i know exactly, he says, the human brain and the heart. and the light strikes at
some flawed parody of himself when it's getting late but it is nice to see someone so raw. i believe this is a way to be recognised.
his melancholy all mist, drizzle, a haze in a grey shimmering state of hate; those visions you can't stop.
somehow i went a bit too far, at least this is the way it feels like after i surface half a year later. seasons have changed.

finally, a past coded in memories fading out in the darkness, disappearing.

oo/o2/o4 ~:) m.e.