“I am so many people.” The body bears within its cavities the memory of all the people that one has slept with. Even alone, it is always together. In a state of complete unexpectingness, as a sunday afternoon, in a state where everything has already happened, always already. Sensations. Sunlight. Softness.
“Home is where I rub my skin against. Will it ever be over? This need for warmth?”

An inexhaustible exhaustion of stretching and expanding to reach the other, the other other. The presence of the absence, of the other body. The body itself as a carrier of past and future in the present. The body as a poetic landscape. The bed as the most self-sufficient structure of domestic living. As the scenic background of aloneness. “Being close is the loneliness one deserves”. The loneliness as expererienced when all is silenced.