Speed.

Lost frames of an image that are inevitably recorded in one’s head .

The abstraction of light due to abnormal rhythm of movement .

A parameter of time translated to fit the sloth of human comprehension.

The space where you fear to lose your balance .
It feels fatal.

The lost frames between one moment and another .

The image that you’ll never know you saw.

A way to express a change of rhythm .

The guilty party for never feeling the present .

The lack of focus.

If you have been assigned to the underclass any other identity you may covet and struggle to attain is a priori denied. The meaning of the 'underclass' identity is an absence of identity; the effacement or denial of individuality, of 'face'- that object of ethical duty and moral care. You are cast outside the social space in which identities are sought, chosen, constructed, evaluated, confirmed or refuted.
The 'underclass' is a collection of people who have had their 'bios' reduced to 'zoe'. The same fate meet the refugees - the stateless, the sans-papiers - the non-territorials in a world of territorially grounded sovereignty.
A most spectacular and perhaps even the most cosnequential, dimension of the planetary-wide expansion of the West has been the slow yet relentless globalization of the production of human waste, or more precisely 'wasted humans' - humans no longer necessary for the completion of the economic cyrcle and thus impossible to accomodate within a social framework resonant with the capitalist economy.

Bauman, Idenity.

Is there anybody out there?

Crossing over

To embark towards a new journey,

between the lines of words you speak when you are alone

( they bounce against the wall in their final attempt to murder you).

Muddy Road: The one that carries your footsteps while you run towards the only redemption a corpse as yourself could ever dream of.

A sweet slumber under the blue light of a transmitter that never received or perceived you as a being.

A quiet death is refreshing.