Pawel Kuczynski
Stop writing doesn’t seem an option at this point, and any negligence about that weighs as a living death sentence, especially if writing bears that configuration of self determination to face the known world. Configuration. The word clings to all things with a such overwhelming informatic burden that is almost impossible to bring it back to its earlier form.
Outside the machinery has enroached on spaces with the roar of engines and turbines, of silent forms absorbing the power of the cosmos. Inside life shrinks on itself, sheltered from its own humanity, interwined in frail or feverish hordes of signs and signals with glimpses of a word, a body or a voice.
The streets, weary by the virulence of indecipherable codes, are kinetic ciruits expurgated from the steps which once crowded them and shaped them with the rumor of their own echoes. On the distance can be only heard a lethany, as lonely as so ancient, navigating hurdles among the metallic tangle of bodyworks overpopulating narrow passageways or immeasurable avenues.
The vestige of a last hug is bearly attached to the memory. Frail and fleeting in the most fateful hour, they have dried up as wings detained beneath the glass of time, to the beat of a waiting giving up its utopias and dystopias to an unrestrained algorithm. Into it dwell the shadows of defered desires beyond all substance, and ties of irrepressible links are weaved by the elusive fiber of dreams.
Only the word remains as a trail alienated of itself. Caught in the flickering net of pixels, under the crossfire of froms and characters, invokes universes from the frantic, cybernetic labyrinth. There, into the dungeon of the digital muteness, stripped of the vitaly of elements seeking for it from the distance, it raises as sign and cabala for a life inhabitated by shadows of unfullfiled promises and reasons diluted in the antipodes of the new.
Searing Words 