Night clubs are fascinatingly wordless.
Like a birth,
The pre-linguistic music, the mute people
Trying to conceale their smells, scars, souls,
Trying to pretend they have smells, scars, souls
And propelling an invisible word-eating machine with their heartbeats in unison.
Maybe if I scream on the top of my lungs all of the words that were born dead tonight
Or attempt to rescue them so they don’t get swallowed by a deaf hole.
Mandarina, gitter, cuervo, horn, schliesslich.
The only one who can speak,
I will breathe life into them pronouncing them aloud
And we would experience new things just because we invented the words to describe them.
No meaning existed before these words.
Words by Lo Pecado
Illustration by Judy Mièl