The 18th KONDENZ finds us in a state of emergency — and it is no longer a festival.
The Ministry of Survival is burning, the small intestine is tied. It’s not a knot — it’s a shape resembling the Cyrillic letter Ф.
The arteries are filled with cholesterol. The effect of cholesterol on the quality of a community’s cultural life remains uncertain.
And now — a deep breath in through the nose, and a long exhale through the mouth. The stomach is full of stones. It digests only concrete already infused with someone’s cut.
The sculpture recently unveiled in the square looks like a plaster cast of a broken leg; from another angle, it resembles a buried child from Pompeii, or from some other leveled city.
The spine is privatizing the marrow.
What is the position of your tongue at this moment? Can you separate it from the roof of your mouth?
JUSTICE has perished — even if we were to view this as a poetic skill.
How do we turn this reality into compost? Is there room for dance as a sign of life in that new field?
If this resembles a simulation of normality — abolish us.
Plant a tree.
