ATK/0 DEF/10000: 18virgin c. 発酵

18virgin/発酵, 東経139度54分21.4秒、北経35度47分7.78秒に鎮座, 2021, Costume wings, feathers, Dimensions variable
18virgin/発酵, 東経139度54分21.4秒、北経35度47分7.78秒に鎮座
18virgin/発酵, 東経139度54分21.4秒、北経35度47分7.78秒に鎮座, detail
18virgin/発酵, 東経139度54分21.4秒、北経35度47分7.78秒に鎮座, detail
18virgin/発酵, 1.600, 2021, Found shoes, found frame, fabric, 38.5 x 47 cm
18virgin/発酵, 1.600
18virgin/発酵, 1.600, detail

is this a dream? something has happened to the sun—what day is it? do dreams get this dark? i put my hand to the wall. what’s there isn’t the cold stone i expected. it’s sticky, something thicker—frozen milk? when i remove my hand from the wall, some part of it stays with me, which i find sweet, kind of.

later i am moving again. diagonally, without straight lines. it takes three or four curbs for me to realize that the goal here is climb. in the time it takes for me to realize this, the frozen milk has gone from green to white. under my feet is interesting too. the word i am looking for is between “ripple” and “billow”, but it’s heavier, like feathers fighting and winning, somewhat, against a thin layer of tar. i continue along this upward spiral trajectory by cutting it into a “diagonal infinity”. bad move—the attempt to give this experience language makes me feel immediately more tired. so i keep it simple, and change “diagonal infinity” to “always halfway”. the environment seems to like this, but then it presents me a new piece of information. farther up, the surrounding landscape changes violently enough for me to know that it is a place of interest.

someone has come along and burned it, the river, on which i was supposed to ferry, toward the torso, the body of this mystery.

there’s tar, again. i don’t see it this time, but i smell it. there’s something acidic all along the edges of the river, and something in my chest begins to hurt. yet nothing in my spine tells me that this is the end, so i wait.

i am handed another piece of information, which i receive through listening. it fades in to disguise itself as a naturally occurring event, but i know what it is long before it reaches full volume. the buzzing of flies—hundreds, thousands maybe. each individual buzz feeds into itself, before being interrupted by the next in a process that repeats and consolidates itself. a squirming brick wall. i listen closely and immediately regret doing so, because my ears begin to picture. i see at once a million cross-hatched eyes that become indistinguishable in the mass. then i puke into my hand but when i look at my hand there’s nothing except sand.

the drone inevitably reaches a limit, a tipping point. the wall of flies tip over so i step onto it, not minding the sensation of my bare feet sinking into countless chitinous wings. this wall begins to float. soon i am headed towards the brightest room.

when i arrive, ahead there’s a head. the room says that i must participate, so i instinctively look for the eyes. I find them, and suddenly i see everything. the head’s eyes pierce straight into my own, and it is then and there that i remember the truth of who i am. it’s the last thought i ever have.

- Rohan Mills