Bodywork. Nine shredded pages from a diary written with devoted inconsistency over the years, beyond calligraphy and the longing of ever meeting the other. It must have all made perfectly sense at some point, but now it’s gone and we can’t always find new ways to get wrong opinions on the right subjects. How much can it actually take and how far can we push it before it breaks, if the opposites are an illusion and we committed to forget the way back home. If we keep it long enough we’ll start to get used. first just bearable, then again beautiful. The rush is over but maybe it wasn’t just a phase. An exercise of stillness, no matter how fast it’s spinning, how loud it gets, how lonely it feels. Anyway, are we even listening to the same music? a.s.