The Netherlands, 1991
I am walking on the pavement as if it were compressed mountains. The stone dust, the pebbles, Silence wants to finger them out of the pavement to examine their scrathes under the microscope when he gets home.
I would like to speak in an indistinct language in order to wander off in fiction. When I try to explain my reality to you I can only do this in relation to my own experience of my surroundings: I think we have this in common, that you agree naturally. When I examine my surroundings I find them illusory because there are all kinds of imagined realities. In this sense everything is an assumption and happens by chance, since we cannot say whether an imagination is true or false when we intrepret reality as something ever changing. The believe in true or false disappears when you paradoxically stick to your own truthfullness.
