Introduction

Back then, undisputed authority placed me - who is without a name, although living in the absolute - at the very beginning of a long list of mechanistic justifications, but it’s recently been discovered that this authority is nothing more than the noise made by the endless echoes of a bad joke.

It was all supposed to have been neutralized during the 20th century: We, without a name, but living in the absolute, had been told (many times and in many ways) that we had been freed from all sorcerers, soothsayers and buffoons; and from then on, that we could absentmindedly walk in perfect, clear, safe circles for the rest of inexistence.

But as memory left, we sensed from afar the signs of creatures at bay. We recognized the special effects imposed on our dying shadows. We were still without an inked name and in the absolute, but were nevertheless running wildly along a path that was reputed normal and perfectly integrated to the obscure, but impeccably edited image of the world.

We became suspicious.

We had no choice but to imagine a caesura - then, almost awake, we groped around for the light switch and exposed all the negatives of ourselves we couldn’t google. Only this way were we able to find some of our eyes buried in pixelized grains of dirt dropped, dragged by our own not so imaginative hands caught in redundant moves.

At that very moment, the captions laying low at the bottom of our mind felt a tiny, scarlet pulsation, and our own awkward translations finally resumed their shining, definitely guiding us out of the reel, and indefinitely into the real.

We had perhaps found, on the borders of ourselves, a key word undeniably affirmative, dissimilar and epic, never typed in a chatroom. It had all the inverted colors of our iris and the shape of a fast moving eyelid crashing down on numerous lies of omission never posted anonymously.

In shock, we carefully read the subtitles that had been hidden from time immemorial; in fact so well hidden were these subtitles that we had to unlearn everything, particularly unlearn how to download our own virtual rhythms while playing games that had no one in sight. And of course no insight.

Our eyes, in energetic terms, were finally able to articulate the libidinal at large, thus providing the three dimensions needed to reach the sky with a lucid and eloquent fist – a blow that could be watched without getting blinded by the brightness of liquid crystal displays plugged in as personal and strictly intimate great walls.

We saw indented limits all the way into the heart of things; and through the marginal and parallel holes of an outdated roll of film we did play, but only our own undetermined role.

That was for the best.

Visions were no longer austere, of an anguished nature, and our brain no longer cared to ask how much time had passed by since the last frame shown on (or out of) line or since the framing of the last victims.

No more simulated happiness. No more insipid ideals. We turned away from the mediocrity and the ridicule of sophisticated orders simultaneously shouted from multiple megaphones aimed at creating the very constraints that come with an exacerbated sense of stoic beauty and/or beautiful branding.

We agreed to renounce all credits. And to delete the FBI warning usually posted before scripts turn for the worse.

We still, to this day, consider our deformities, our angles, chaotic gait, hatched lines and our broken awareness splattered all over our bodies and texts to be quite luminous, indeed, in their primitive essence. And we still, to this day, seek a savage form of ambiguity.

Our refusal to focus on visionary words, as much as our disruptive mental panoramic shots, have all contributed to transform the view into transparencies.

We have also eliminated ourselves as potential stand-ins for future stars listed in the elegantly forged credits shown at the end of the featured truth. We’ll stick instead to veracity and its infinite kinematics.

We are eyes without a name and in the absolute. But we can now see the sorcerers, soothsayers and buffoons wrapped up in their giant screens featuring long and miserable careers in various political formats.

They are standing over there, their lenses all fogged up from the heat made by perpetual mouse motions and the frantic flight of our plots.

We have opted for open-air cinemas, no films shown, nothing reviewed, just the repeated sequence of kissing in the back-seat of ocular dimensions oblivious to the night.

Still without a linked name and in the absolute, we know the difference between what should be seen and a made-up scene.

I am like many others.

But I am also - it's no longer a secret - the laolao who loves you, little ones.

I am so old, a thousand years old maybe, so old that I can’t be sure I’m still around. I must therefore depart and seek your presence in a world I know nothing about.

That will virtually make me an alien when I reach you.

So I will write throughout the trip to make sure that it remains so, that I’m never quite recognized as such.

With all my love I do give you, as sole inheritance, the entire future I will not have.

Of course, it’s not possible for me to understand what I write from so far away, woven within the fabric of the space-time that has held me, but you will, sweet ones.

Laolao