けものになること (Kemono Ni Naru Koto)

I am Deleuze. There's no doubt about it. I don't know what he looked like, nor do I know when
he died. Perhaps he's not even dead. But one thing is clear: I am Deleuze, which means a dead
man is here now, present. I don't think this can last forever. My toes are already somewhat cold,
and the nail on my little finger is gone without a trace. Yet, I knew I was Deleuze. I clearly
recognized it. I am writing. Is it ‘I’ who is writing? I was writing. Why write? I am thinking about
that. What? About what I'm writing? No. About sleeping. I'm writing about not dying. I am not
dead. I am still here. I am not asleep yet. I'm writing about sleeping. How? I don't know. I don't
know either. I am the rebel army of my body. I am not there yet. I haven't met 'me' yet. I am
heading there. I left alone. That's why I'm writing. That's how I started writing. In other words,
this is not 'me.' This is a collaboration between 'me' and 'myself.' We become 'me,' 'myself,' and
even all humans. We become plants and animals, minerals, children, mice, heating appliances,
rivers, phenomena, molecules of memory, molecules of water, evaporating, and even
subsequent lightning strikes. We are everywhere. That's how I write. Why do I write? Am I trying
to heal by writing?



No, that's not it. I write precisely because I'm healthy. Though healthy, I'm lying in my futon—a
bedridden athlete, a sport of sleeping. I have a dedicated acupuncturist, but I don't visit a clinic.
This treatment is solely to accelerate myself further. Writing, too, is a form of acceleration.
Writing is like piercing my own body with needles. Not for attack, nor for healing, but to
accelerate, to bring about physical change and transformation, to put my consciousness to
sleep. People don't write to manifest their unconscious desires into reality; that's merely an
overflow of imagination. That would mean a separation from the body, a pact with the
unconscious state. My aim is to escape from that unconscious state. That's why I'll keep
piercing myself today. In Time Regained, Proust has Bloch, a lower-class Jewish playwright,
say, 'd-d-d' as a verbal tic.



＜Fantastique!＞ Writing is like this: looking at the pale blue sky from a bridge, finding your own
face in the river's surface—that distorted, melted, leprous self—and then expanding into the
blue beyond, the blue of the water's surface, into every shade of blue, becoming part of its
spectrum, tearing through all layers, all strata, scattering archaeology, utterly burying the
humans swarming over fossils, landing on the back of a living dinosaur, being shaken off, then
devoured by its mouth, absorbed into its stomach, becoming nutrients, passing through ducts, a
crucial mission to make flowers bloom, sneaking into cells, forging identification, forging
currency, issuing every kind of forged certificate, tomb-raiding, invading, using forged key cards
to enter genes, becoming part of a gang of teeth that regrew at just the right time, measuring the
BPM of the entire organs, muscles, and cell division of every herbivorous and carnivorous
dinosaur—and sometimes even a single blade of grass—in accordance with their digestion,

predicting, reaching an impossible state, and then blooming like a spore. Writing is giving
language narcotics. Like a sorcerer casting a spell on language, it's erasing one's own
existence, completely escaping from the tax office, from the family registry, from family, from
community, from the state. So, even if I'm caught, I wouldn't understand. As a body completely
infused with narcotics, I wouldn't grasp its meaning. I am a single cactus. I am countless cacti. I
am a body that scatters language.


We are thus mixed in every situation. I don't mean to say we are one. Rather, I am completely
collapsing. We must be lucid, not writing unconsciously. Of course, we mustn't be logical or
rational. However, there might be such a thing as animal logic or plant rationality. Since we can
become anything, talk of four dimensions is unnecessary. I don't lie. Of course, all writing is
nonsense. But this temporary architecture—the scaffolding, pipes, nets, construction
elevators—is not for our healing, our adaptation to reality, society's demands, or the state's
rules. It is for us to be us, to write together as two, and to become waves, every island, the
creatures living there, everyone's songs, birdsong, the flicker of flames, that town, the town of
flames, its inhabitants, the pyramid of a bonfire town, ruins everywhere, newly formed burial
mounds, living burial mounds, erupting volcanoes, that town, its shopping district, the winter
wind blowing there, the river, the bridge, oneself seen from the bridge, the blue beyond, the blue
of the water's surface, countless shades of blue. It is about causing delirium. I do not fall into
delirium. It is about making language delirious. That is, dousing it with narcotics. Making it
inhale. Not by coercion, but with the body of a magician. Not through ritual, but through sudden
encounters. Without preparation, extemporaneously. Right now, right now. I wrote this book
based on twenty-eight texts. But I haven't even read those books. In other words, books are not
meant to be read; they are one of the magician's herbs for leading language into delirium. They
are dried herbs. Just grass that doesn't look like herbs. But there is no death there. Grass does
not die. We, too, do not die, but it's not that our bodies are immortal; we die like grass. A book is
a single blade of grass, countless blades of grass, grass never seen before. Grass that cannot
be named. But we know how to use it. Books need to be used in a different way by people, in
our way. We have Burroughs' complete works. We have Proust's notebooks, his dream diary.
What Kerouac used when he wrote: self-taken photos, countless out-of-focus photos, Joyce's
“Ulysses” recorded at the dinner table, Raymond Roussel's “Piano Pieces,” the collected
“Matchbox Illustration Collection,” Nijinsky's “Chess Scores,” Artaud's “Airline Ticket Files,”
Lawrence's “Self-Made Animal Encyclopedia,” Kumagusu's “Sperm Stipple Drawings,” Melville's
“New and Old Testaments” cut up and transformed into entirely different cruel novels,
Lovecraft's “Hospital Records,” Godard's “Household Accounts,” “Modern Ippen Dance Pieces,”
Bergson's “Records of Intuition,” the two-part “Records of Coincidence,” Gaikotsu's “Sexual
Intercourse Diary,” “Candid Photo Collections,” right up to Hiraga Gennai's “On Pickpocketing.” I
am randomly choosing every kind of book.


A book is not an object. A book is an open skeleton. It's a body not yet dead. It's a chemical
formula extending tentacles, a broken giant tree, the detached leg of an insect. Call a surgeon
right now and connect that book, that leg, that chemical formula to a body, to create a
completely unknown unconscious. The dreams of humans, life forms, minerals, molecules yet

unknown—that is, the unconscious landscape: towering buildings, rules, crowds, smoke, steam,
clouds after evaporation, God, sin and punishment there, and then, the leap. Not just birds, but
the practice of bird-humans for every substance, their miracles, curves, the residential areas
along the railway lines, anniversaries by the window, monuments, cemeteries, gravestones,
what it means to be alive there, its significance, reason for living, war, steel helmets, air-raid
shelters, bombs, gunpowder, emergency services, first-aid kits, crimson bandages,
scrapes—what is pain there? We have no unconscious. Escaping from psychoanalysis. Not
judging oneself. Not easily falling into a clinical state. Not falling into any state. Escaping before
that. Be healthy. Eat three meals, and if you don't want to eat, don't be hungry. Don't sleep.
Rather, stay awake. Behave suspiciously. A sleepless body. The body doesn't sleep for a
moment. Even when it becomes a skeleton. Of course. We are writing “A Thousand Plateaus.” I
suddenly found myself writing Chapter Ten, “Becoming Animal.” But we are two. Since each of
us has two planets, that alone makes us plural. It's a fission.


Nuclear explosions and nuclear fusion are repeating. Just with that, time has already run out.
Now, language is dozing off. The first thing to use is this sleeping drug. To gently lure language
into a temporary unconsciousness, into our vision that has become a nebula, first, let language
sleep. Let it repeat. The deep sleep of that train, caused by a step so small it's invisible.
Language with a sleeping face like death. I remembered a movie called “Steamboat Willie.”
Some people might not know it. I don't know it either. Other than the fact that a mouse is the
main character, I know nothing. No, if I may say so, I know it. I know it from beginning to end.
Every frame of film is in my head. The mouse moving in it was my colleague. Mice have no
units. Although they have faces, they don't need to be identified; their faces changed every day.
If I caught one mouse, the next day there would be two. That wasn't strange, nor was it my
misunderstanding. There was no laboratory. No mistake was being made. It was a single movie.
A fact. Everything that happened there was a fact. I watched it in a movie theater. I bought a
ticket. I didn't have someone buy it for me. I stole it. I didn't sneak in because I had no money. I
stole the money and bought it with that. Otherwise, I wouldn't be an audience member. It would
be an illusion, and I wouldn't be there. I had no one. I was abandoned. A long time ago. I was
abandoned before I died. My body was abandoned somewhere. Someone must have picked it
up. It cannot be identified. But that doesn't matter. It's not that I don't look back at the past; I
have no past. I can remember.


In other words, it's the now, not what's happening just now, but this very instant. In that regard,
mice never make mistakes. Like me, the mice were inside the movie theater. Not on the screen.
What's projected on the screen is merely a cross-section of a mouse, yet they live only there.
However, they don't perceive the world as closed off, but rather as something like smoke. If you
tried to confirm their burrows, simply cutting through the ground wouldn't be enough. Their paths
are closer to memories than tunnels. There's no hole there, meaning it's like a gopher's burrow.
Gophers don't make burrows underground, so what I said earlier about burrows was incorrect. I
sometimes make mistakes. But it's completely opposite to how a misunderstanding creates
something; it just generates electricity like plasma and then disappears shortly after. My memory

is accurate, but that's because I don't engage in the act of thinking twice. I don't reconsider. The
audience remembers. It wasn't a popular movie, but I saw it. I write this because I saw it. It's not
that I can't write if I don't see it. I could see it because I stole the money. In the movie, mice just
reproduce. The reproducing mice gradually stop being mice. It became a forest. It became a
river. Where does the river flow from? The boy wants to know that place. Even though his little
finger is bitten, the boy stubbornly believes it's an “injury” due to carelessness. However, what
we must be careful about is that we, too, feel injured. I'm just sitting here. My mouse colleagues
know that. They knew my whereabouts. It's the same for everyone else. Our whereabouts are
already known. We have no way to escape, nor do we intend to. It's not that we don't escape
because it's dark. It's not that we don't escape because we paid money. We are engrossed. The
boy is proposed to by the girl, but he senses the presence of mice behind her and immediately
rejects her.

That's why he headed back to reclaim the river's source. What seemed like raindrops were
actually excrement. His nasal organs had already collapsed; there was no smell anywhere. He
even passed by his own home, which still held asset value. Yet, the boy ignored it. Even when
being swallowed by a torrent, people still think about taxes. Life is always secondary. There, the
boy builds a boat. The boat creates a surface between himself and the mice. The boat created
the water's surface. Even when light streamed in, not a single fish was to be found. That's when
the boy realized something was wrong. The boy seems to be just talking to himself, but that's
only on the screen. We were searching for the whereabouts of water, not a single drop of which
had fallen on us. The boy stands there as a gatekeeper. The small man who should have been
visible to the boy now looked like a giant rock due to the camera's close-up. Water was dripping
there. It wasn't tears. The boy must have been running incessantly, yet he wasn't sweating at all.
It became clear that no time had passed. However, mice were climbing on top of the rock. A
river flowed behind him. He went upstream in one go. There were mice at my feet too. Did that
mouse and the mouse on the screen converse with each other? I said without thinking, 'That's
not a mouse.' I, the audience, remembered. I didn't remember it at that moment. Now, that
scene is surfacing in my mind.



But could it be said that this was an experience? The river was clearly swelling. Sometimes,
even patterns underwater were reflected. So, in a way, there must have been humans there too.
Besides the boy! Yet, the boy felt no doubt about it. Neither did I. No audience member stood
up. Towels were prepared. But no one wiped away the falling drops of water. Where was this
river flowing from? The boy notices that the water's flow is reversed. We already knew he was
slow to realize. Yet, no one moved their lips there. Our bodies are not made to react to every
single thing. Perhaps the boy isn't human. The words I uttered were not directed at the river, but
at the boy. The proliferation of mice wasn't content with just reproducing; it aimed to transform
the landscape, to develop into a meteorological phenomenon. Not mice, but the proliferation of
mice moved the boy's body. The boy is trying to move. I, too, felt like moving. Just because I felt
like moving didn't mean I should simply go somewhere. However, I wanted to leave that place.
'Run. Run now.' A voice echoed from somewhere. Of course, this voice was self-generated.
People always create things themselves. There's nothing making a sound anywhere. Sound is

nowhere. When I stepped out of the movie theater, there was a great flood. It was the river
overflowing due to the proliferation of mice. Where is the boy? I tried to search, but the mice
laughed at me. There's no point in doing such a thing. You should only do things that have no
meaning. The movie theater walls had collapsed. It was so sudden that none of the audience
members seemed to understand. No one stood up. But what good is understanding at a time
like this? I didn't think. I asked no one. I just opened the door. The great flood flowed on,
oblivious to me.


The muddy torrent had flowed all the way into the ticket booth. This place is semi-underground.
The water will flow endlessly. Where did the mice go? I glanced at the infinitely multiplying mice,
tiny droplets of mice, as I searched for the mouse that should have been at my feet just
moments ago. I won't write any words I've made up here. This isn't the time for writing. It's not
that there's no time; I have all the time in the world. I have no obligations either. However, I was
on the verge of death. Or so it seemed. I could have deliberated indefinitely. There must be
blueprints. Maps, too, should be found if I searched. But I needed to find an escape route as
quickly as possible. Rather than creating words, I could only steal words and improvise my
escape from this place. I couldn't endure it. What else could I do besides what I desired? I didn't
even think. My feet moved on their own. They were the boy's feet. The boy wasn't there. My
eyes had also changed somewhat. My eyes could survey like terrain. I lacked only the tools,
and I was about to start working. At that moment, the muddy torrent swallowed me. There was
no need to breathe. There was no oxygen here. Oxygen was a toxin. This was not a rebellion by
plants. Plants merely live, in his consciousness. It's not that they're unrelated to me; I am merely
a part of them. Along with the wind, I was called by the plants. The boy remembered. I have no
such memory. Memory is always changing, and I am not in it. I saw with my own eyes as far as
the muddy torrent flowed. The rest was a record of something else. It was not memory. The river
must have tributaries. I must be going somewhere. Before I could move, I became the river.
Naturally, the river had no eyes.

Kumagusu remembered. One of the most crucial problems in natural history is considering the
relationships between animals. I rented a hut. However, it wasn't a contract with humans. The
hut is in the forest. No one built the hut. Perhaps I might have made a contract with a
thousand-year-old human. Sumo with the deceased, and ultimately, feasts with white women.
You can't taste with just your tongue. The taste also lingers on your hands, and sometimes
resides in your hair. Memories disappear. Memories do not disappear. The forest's memory
changes daily. Ancestors can only be traced by walking. They don't remain in writing. They
remain in the feet. Feet transcend time. The foot's time encounters what has been forgotten.
The foot met the hut. The hut was there. There's no such thing as a new species of plant. The
foot just knew it. The hut, like plants, also lived there. Nature does not imitate. Nor is it repeating
itself. Similar things do not have close ancestors, nor did they branch off from them; they are
fundamentally different. Humans assume. When assumptions exceed a certain level, they
become science, according to the sheer number of humans. Science creates dreams. In
dreams, we interact with animals, have animal offspring, and form a community. But the hut was
not a dream. What I saw was not a dream; first and foremost, I have never dreamed. What I see

is what my feet saw. My feet see with their toes, my arches see, my heels see. It's known that
the calf muscles have an eye-like structure similar to a mythical creature, and that doesn't
appear in myths. It's not a dream, it's a landscape, and there is light there too. Humans have
light within their bodies. It's different from an inner light; it has the concrete ability to project
things. Humans were originally aware of this. That's why humans started walking at night. I only
walk at night. It can be said that this is an exercise to close off vision and activate the eyes in
the feet. One should be careful not to be captured by the eyes and should avoid recounting
events from the dream world in sequence. Expressing what was seen with the feet using hands
or mouth is akin to trying to eat what was seen with the eyes.


Feasts are not to be found in such places. Feasts are in music. What is seen with the feet is
turned into music. In a village called Mindasuta on the western edge of the island of Indonesia,
there's a long-standing custom: people get up the moment they see something with their feet
and arrange a type of grass called konlan-sou that grows near the lake. Based on this, the
village musicians perform, and all activities for that day are decided. This extends not only to
village-wide events but also to the minute actions of individuals (even a newborn baby). In the
forest, there's a movement akin to sudden, intuitively striking thoughts, what we might call
intuition. Acorns suddenly falling is another example. The time a tree falls, and even the angle at
which it falls, we dismiss as coincidence. But that's not the case. It's not mechanized. Even if we
call them 'they,' the forest is not a single community. Nor is it divided into individual blades of
grass. It exists simultaneously. One day, I was sleeping on a rock for a while. I packed some
nemurigusa (sleeping grass) into a pipe and inhaled it vigorously, and I became able to
converse a little. You can't decide 'who' it is. We don't count in that way here; there are no
numbers. One is no different from eight thousand. A face floated before me. The one thing you
must never do is whistle. A mouth harp, however, is fine. The mouth harp, which completely
disappeared in the Edo period, secretly survived only among a criminal group called 'Mogushi.'
They fled and hid in a certain mountain. They were originally people with some defect. People
who were called madmen. People who couldn't understand humans. People who had demons
dwelling within them. People for whom a clear sky looked like dark clouds. People whose eyes
saw too much. People with three ears. People whose fingertips were split in two. People who
could hear voices thousands of meters away right by their ears. People who mourned the smell
of corpses. People who thought they weren't human. The language of such people was the
mouth harp.


Perhaps it was Mogushi I conversed with. They said Mogushi was gone now, and even if they
were alive, I'd heard they lived alone, not in groups. For them, there's no hierarchy among living
beings. Even a single ant is accepted as a member of a society. They even created documents,
one by one, using their unique language, the mouth harp. What we call the unconscious was
clearly language to Mogushi, and they had no concept of ease or comfort. My apprentice,
Oonaka, despite being a middle schooler, has a chaotic mind, wanders around everywhere,
hurls abuse, stabs himself in the stomach with a blade, then laughs indifferently, and screams
every day on Meijū Bridge. Of course, the people around him ignore Oonaka, even trying to

send him to the hospital, but I observed. Oonaka claimed he could transform endlessly and
leaped from the bridge. Fractures were commonplace, and he often suffered severe injuries.
Yet, Oonaka doesn't die. Whether it's a plaster wall or anything else, he can easily slip through.
No one would believe me if I told them, but it's true. I consider the problems between animals
and the classification of natural history completely meaningless, but in humans, like Oonaka and
Mogushi, I saw something. Oonaka was incredibly fast. And yet, utterly slow. My eyes couldn't
keep up with Oonaka's movements. I even thought about giving up studying plants, but one day,
as I was working in the hut, Oonaka came in and started eating all the research papers I had
written. He kept shouting, 'Paper is food. Paper is food.' Bergson remembered. We were
human, but now we slip through humans, escape from humans, push up from inside human
skin, tear it, dissect each of its organs with a scalpel, spitting out blood, without breaking any
ribs, slipping through the gaps, peeling back layers, cutting all the way to the throat, and then
carefully unfolding the nasal cavities.


There were countless fields, swarming with insects. Without discarding a single hair, we
meticulously arranged them on an aluminum plate, and finally, with extremely fine tweezers,
carefully grasped a nerve fiber. Animals are the same. Along the river, there was a settlement of
those who lived by it, with low roofs lined up and smoke rising from crude chimneys. Watching
from the bridge, I was captivated by that smoke. It was thick with scent, and it whetted my
appetite. On the bridge, I wore no sandals, but shoes made of grime. No one approached me.
Of course, I am a child of man. But no one knows. There were no humans around me. Of
course, humans exist. They just don't come close, they just don't speak to me. I didn't care. If
you have no money, no one complains, and if you don't desire money, even more so, the town is
no longer necessary. It exists only for that purpose. For me, the town was collapsing. Even new
buildings, standing there, were almost invisible. Vision depends on money. The organs of the
body had already become a single state. However, that black smoke was clearly vibrant and
pulsating, and my nose twitched. My nose was clearly running ahead of me. They were
competitors. My physical abilities are inferior to theirs. But it's just that the content of the athletic
competition is different; the act of entrusting it to the nose also requires a different kind of
instantaneous power. My grimy feet were slow, and I was hit several times along the way. On
the bridge, there were various boundaries, and there was virtually no space for me to walk.
When I crossed the bridge, I descended the stone steps. It wasn't paved. Just randomly placed
cobblestones embedded alternately. It looked like some kind of scales. The mud was slimy, and
I walked balancing myself on amphibian skin. I reached a long, slender neck, and when I
jumped down, there was a town. Below the bridge. Naturally, that was not a place for humans to
live. Humans had their designated places to live.


Was that the underworld? That, too, needed to be considered. I asked my nose. But my nose,
without faltering, discovered the town's entrance. Without hesitation, it went inside. I was left
behind. I had left my presence there. Being hungry, my body followed my nose. There were no
humans. Dilapidated houses lined the street. Black smoke was the landmark. Opening a glass
door, I saw humans gathered there. Everyone was faceless. Their skin melted together with the

person next to them. I was able to enter immediately. They had no contracts. I smeared some
soil, chromosomes, and blood, from around the place onto parts of my body to erase my scent.
Peeking over the shoulder of a bare-boned man in front of me, I saw an orchestra playing
instruments. Countless corpses are brought here. Not just humans. Horses, cows, pigs too.
Even dogs, cats, and weasels. They were in charge of burying these despised creatures and
dismembering the meat. Organs hung from wires suspended from the beams. However, it was
not a bloody hell at all; it was a kind of medicine, and a kind of instrument. While taking on the
role of burial, they never actually called it death. Rather, they formed an orchestra. At the edge
of the stage, a suspicious-looking man was looking down. Then, he tilted his head, approached
the drummer playing with him, and roared. He seemed unconvinced for a while, pacing around
the stage, or stepping off in exasperation. The orchestra was sweating. The audience was
almost merging into a single mass. My fingers stuck to the bony man in front of me and wouldn't
let go. After a while, a man quietly emerged. His eyes were clearly vacant, and he looked as if
he would collapse at any moment. In his hand, he held a vertical flute made from a femur. He
was Black. It was the first time I had ever seen a Black person. When he put the flute to his lips,
we were sucked in. The single mass had been soft air. The flute entered our field of vision like a
tower, and from it, a view became visible. The yet-unfinished tower had completely forgotten
that it was architecture.




Miles Davis had mastered the playing style of this man, who only existed between 1730 and
1735, without ever meeting him. It was not a revelation, but merely an effect. Technique doesn't
transmit; it conducts, traveling through the coil-like bones and internal organs of humans. There
were no words, yet it couldn't be called music either. It was like a tower, and within him, we
could glimpse the landscapes that living beings had once seen. It wasn't even an experience.
After the music ended, I began to wonder how I could join their group. They are chaotic. This
unequivocally permeates their society, and this is by no means a myth created by my
pain-induced automatic dictation. It was far from ritual. It was a landscape that should never
have been seen. I saw it not in a story, but at the outskirts of a town hidden beneath a bridge. In
other words, the man was a magician. The black smoke along the river served as a hole inviting
one underground. There was no clock, and the rabbit was already dead. However, its red eyes
remained fixed in our sunken eye sockets, and I even forgot to close my own eyes. Our change,
my change, and the man's tower are neither imitation nor identification. What can be clearly
stated is that this change is not something that occurs in the realm of imagination. Even if what
was seen from the man's tower was night during the day, it was not a dream or an illusion. It
was an event from four hundred years ago, but it was a complete reality, and I only see within
reality. It happened at the street corner where I now stand, not in a space created by stone
monuments or documents. Indeed, it was a morgue. This means I might also be dead, or it
might just be labor ordered by the social construct of identity that created me as a human.




But can it be said that I experienced it? Although it clearly happened in reality, no one but me
can speak of that event. What emerges from my mouth is nothing but the man's tower, and if I
am asked whether it was a delusion, or a place I visited when listening to Miles Davis's 'On the
Corner,' I just need not answer. If I don't answer, the question will be left untouched indefinitely,
and time will be born there. The black smoke stretched straight into the sky, but if left alone, it
would eventually blend with the atmosphere. What was there were countless dead animals, but
I didn't become a rabbit, nor did I become a horse. It's not about becoming something right in
front of me like that. What I 'became' was an animal not found in encyclopedias, and even if that
animal existed in this reality, people would say it was completely unlike it. However, the fact that
I became that 'beast' is reality. The man is not reality, nor is the tower reality, nor are the
exposed bones of the crowd we called 'we,' nor are my series of actions, discoveries, or the
daytime night concert I saw after crossing the scales. That is complete reality. What we left
behind, that femur flute... those are not real at all. However, time only flows there. It is a duration
like an afterglow, a pack of dogs that gather when a chapter's reverberation occurs. When a
dog, which I could never get used to, didn't leave my side one day, that dog became a monk
residing in the garan (temple complex) created by my sustained sound, the man, the tower, and
the sweat of the crowd. If the dog isn't real, neither is the monk. It doesn't correspond to me.
However, the fact that I am looking at the passage connected beneath that garan is my
inspiration.



Finally, it must be made clear that 'becoming animal' is not evolution, or at least not biological
evolution based on genes. Classifying something is merely a world of imagination. Defining that
dinosaurs existed by looking at fossils is no different from a dream-seeing technique. Of course,
I'm not saying it's inaccurate. 'When I woke up, the dinosaur was still there,' said Augusto
Monterroso, a Guatemalan novelist who worked part-time as a butcher in a market. The subject
has disappeared, so 'who' cannot be determined. This sentence is one answer to evolution, and
this, too, is time left unattended. It's not even a dream. It is shown here that the dinosaur did not
come into being as a result of classification. In other words, dinosaurs are not yet extinct. You
cannot declare something dead if you don't even know its skin color. What cannot be killed is
still alive, quietly breathing somewhere, waiting for the opportune moment to attack us.
Becoming animal is an alliance with what is not yet dead. I am coexisting with dinosaurs. This
cannot be grasped by ecology. It is a fantasy, and in dinosaur museums, you can buy fossils in
capsule toys. Even though you never know when you might be eaten by a 70-million-year-old
shark. Humans who live on land and switch to sleeping only once at night forget about the sea.
Just because a fossil is 'from' Morocco, we've become accustomed to specific latitudes and
longitudes. When I see sago palms on a concrete-paved roadside, I become terrified and
inadvertently run away. A sago palm, by simply uttering a sound into the surrounding air, can
summon creatures from all eras and natural disasters. This is not magic; it is simply the
knowledge to understand that what is not dead is alive. Artaud went to Mexico, but we have
forgotten too much about the shamans who live in our neighborhoods. Pursue the old woman
who is picking dokudami (Houttuynia cordata) next to a shopping mall in the countryside,
suffering from dementia.



Fishy fish, fish vegetables, fish herbs, lizard tails, chameleon plants, heart leaves, priest's grass.
Dokudami is a map indicating that this place is the sea. There are no fish there. However, just
as it was called Shibuki in ancient Japan, there are traces of fish there. The scattered water
droplets have not yet reached the surface of the water. We are bored within such a sustained
state. But even if you put a fishing hook into the thicket of dokudami, you won't catch any fish.
The dokudami and the fish cause water droplets, the sea, to spread, and this alliance is
established by ringworm, that is, by Tinea cruris. Such an alliance does not arise from biological
evolution; union and cross-breeding make no sense. Rather, it occurs through the mediation of
contagion and transmission by scent. The spray is not the sea. It is the water on the sea, and
the tip of a fish's tail fin. The spray still floats in mid-air among the damp, shady clusters of
grass. This alliance becomes a sign for those who journey from the shopping mall by stellar
navigation. It's not a journey, nor a movement, nor is time static; if you know that it is the wave
lines hitting a canoe, then invisible islands will naturally become visible. The magician
remembered. When you get in a taxi, you have to talk. What is he wearing? It has been that way
since ancient times. It's not just the enemy who doesn't know the true identity of the infiltrating
human; allies also don't. It's impossible to create humans whom even allies don't know through
postal services. This is because the feet of humans, created by the land numbers and symbols
decided by the state, have no eyes. So, how can it be made possible? Should it be transmitted
by doves? Of course, animal weapons are one method. Homing pigeons were originally
operated as a side business by tobacco shops. Necessary supplies always begin with tobacco.
Not food. Humans prioritize communication over food. All living creatures are like that. To be
alive can be said to be communication itself.


We are a communication device, but it is just one component, and it cannot be bought at a parts
store. Taxis are still the airport for communication. Taxi drivers are in the realm of magicians.
They don't form swarms, nor are they organized into gangs. At first glance, it might seem that
way. However, the radio they use creates a different kind of swarm. They conceal their true
profession. One taxi driver said, 'I've been continuously building telephone poles.' He grips the
steering wheel, never turning to face you. They have no faces. They are like machines, with
only their mouths moving, and occasionally, topics unrelated to your conversation leak out. A
variety of things leak out inside a taxi. Many of these leaked things dissolve with the passing
scenery outside the car window, but some do not. For that, instead of answering questions, you
must ask them. You must ask probing questions. Before they learn your identity, you must make
them something other than a taxi driver. If you take out your wallet, if you touch the navigation
screen, we immediately sense the premonition of labor and listen to the voice telling us to
behave quietly within the existing relationship. That's when you must move your mouth. The
man who continued to build telephone poles originally built temples. His best friend was a
fisherman, but he started working as a telegrapher. It wasn't a career change. It was part of a
plan, and the man, wittingly or unwittingly, became involved in the work of telephone poles. He
is a magician who propagates voices. The telephone poles were built by one man. He put up
seven or eight poles a day. He has already exceeded forty thousand. In other words, our voice

can be said to be his voice. We are occupied by him. And in doing so, we are assisting in the
contagion of voice. His voice is now countless, and it has become impossible to tell which is his
voice and which is ours. However, there was an opportunity to stop it. Many times. The man
who built the telephone poles was never rebuked. No one remembered to stop him.


And that's why the place where the man lived was a satoyama called Mount Ōgi, where not a
single hunter resided. As they didn't engage in agriculture, everyone ate plants and wild berries
flourishing in the mountains. They ate no animals at all, and being far from the sea, they ate no
fish either. The only thing they ate was frogs. Green frogs. Just as there are semi-death
conditions where people see green landscapes before dying, frogs are associated with death.
They eat them during the village festival. They do nothing. Nothing comes out. The only meal is
frogs, and they just gulp down unfiltered sake. It doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl. The
people in the village simply drink sake in the pitch-dark temple. The taxi driver was repairing the
temple. He knew there were many hiding places. A woman was there. A village woman.
Anyone, everyone, could engage in sexual intercourse there. The frogs knew that too. Most of
the people had supposedly turned into frogs. They hadn't been intoxicated by sake. Even the
women had turned into frogs. However, at that time, he didn't feel disgusted. Of course, he
vomited several times. After purging everything, it began. First, each man would use a plant
called hane, which was the source of purple dye, to smear a frog-like scent onto his body. It also
had a disinfecting effect. The men, now purple, would search for the hidden women. The taxi
driver was supposedly just twelve years old. Although he was intoxicated by sake and frogs, he
oddly remembered the details of that time precisely. He quickly figured out where the women
were hiding. The taxi driver didn't tell his companions. He had no intention of monopolizing
them. In the first place, he didn't even know what he was supposed to do. When he climbed into
the main hall's attic, he saw a silhouette. When he called out, the woman was weeping softly.
Concerned, he approached her, and she immediately hid behind a pillar. Nevertheless, the man,
ordered to use force, grabbed her wrist. The man, bitten there, temporarily became fixated on
the woman who fled outside the temple grounds. He went into the forest. He chased after her,
but the man quickly lost his sense of direction. This area is a place where people get deceived.
Seeing familiar wild vegetables growing, which he often collected, the man, now hungry, picked
some and put them in his mouth, thinking it might be a familiar place.


Numbness set in, and I was taken aback again. I heard a woman's voice. She was calling for
help. The man wasn't doing anything wrong. He proceeded for a while. The villagers had started
searching. The completely lost man was still a frog. His appearance had completely returned to
that of a boy. At that moment, an animal I had never seen before appeared on a rock in front of
him. It had a long nose and a thin face. I could see its fangs. Its eyes glowed. Countless eyes
peered from between the trees. They had formed a collective. I was wounded. Even though I
hadn't been touched. The taxi driver was, at some point, surrounded. The frog felt no fear at all.
The frog doesn't transform; it can synchronize with the nerves of these swarms. It became like a
nest of butterflies, and the frog didn't become a member of the swarm; rather, it became a part
of the swarm's landscape. It became a tree trunk, or an insect, or fallen leaves and wind. The

swarm's nerves, including these, were such that the frog became them themselves in order to
form a collective. There, the frog engaged in sexual intercourse. It copulated with an animal it
had never seen before. In our conversation, he was driving the car as a huge swarm of frogs, a
swarm of animals I had never seen. That is, at that time, the nerves passing through the tree
trunk were also transmitted to my brain, and together with the burning machine inside the car,
they became a single swarm. In that swarm, the taxi driver's individual memories and the
contents of my wallet took on a different meaning, piercing through the idea of them being mere
features or individual characteristics. Currency was remembered to be a mineral, and it was
properly receiving our electrical signals. A midnight taxi driving on the highway is a swarm of
animals never seen before. Virginia Woolf goes into town to buy bread as a school of fish. 'The
bones longed for truth, breaking, trying to vomit words. Oh, I want it. Someday—(a scream from
over there, a car veering off course crashes into the greengrocer here. Buses collide, 'Boom!')
||Eternally|| (The station clock clearly sings the song of noon. Light on golden scales. A crowd of
children!) Truth. It's a domed roof, coins hanging from trees, smoke from chimneys, shouting,
screaming, moaning. 'Iron for sale!' Woolf was not a body, but what Woolf saw, the butterfly
wings behind Woolf. It was time, but the scenery passing by the car window was like hair. Even
water droplets flew. Woolf's underwear, reflected in puddles, blended with the sky, becoming
wallpaper just like that. I'm not talking about the whole thing; there is no Earth there. There is a
universe. Only what exists, one after another, not dragging along, but each accelerating. That
acceleration moves nothing. Instead of moving things, we move there. We melt. There is no
heat. Nor is it frozen. When it touches seawater, it melts and becomes a single iceberg, as if
connecting with the memory of aquatic animals. When this happens in a town, Woolf, who called
it 'the phantom net,' is not a fisherman, but a school of fish after all. The allure of the swarm. It is
also fear. It is to go somewhere while staying in town. It is to stroll around a lake while sitting on
a chair. From the outside, he might just seem like someone taking a walk. But the life forms
inhabiting under his skin are tingling and fidgety, waiting eagerly for a rupture that might come
someday. It is an empty tunnel, or perhaps a hose. What if there's an ego there? —Tied to a
truck, crushed to death by water. Aren't humans like that? However, non-human things also
each have a spine, and yet, no spine. Without branching, they have been breathing through gills
under the skin for a long time. There is no feeling of suffering. No, in reality, it must be painful.


However, rather than sensation, it is the obscurity of simply being there that drives their hearts.
A person counting each of those blood vessels is not on a stroll, but closer to a quarrel between
plants. What happens on an invisible planet is also an accident close to us. It's no different from
a traffic accident in a newspaper article, and death notices are still found everywhere. It's
frightening. It becomes frightening. Woolf is said in pathography to have bipolar disorder, but
that doesn't bring them closer to treatment. It's easy to say they had ecstasy and enlightenment.
But there is no despair there. It pierces through despair, becoming a voiceless conversation that
floats in the droplets beneath the skin of aquatic animals. As I now stood in front of the movie
theater, looking at this horde of mice, a thought suddenly crossed my mind. If I killed these, how
much would they be worth? But at the same time, it was a river, and if I were a single boat, I
should move from here. I needed to leave this place, not go to another. No, rather, I was not
swallowed by the river; I was the river. I was swaying so much, full of gaps, that even if my

name were called now, I probably couldn't answer. I had no time for that. I was defying nature.
Was it me? I was melting, I was not human. To that being, nature appeared as something
different. There was another, different nature there. What was happening along the river was a
civilization of time. It was too early for plants to emerge. Flowers didn't exist yet. What was there
was time, and the slave of time, and the king of time. Becoming something different is contrary
to nature. However, at that moment, another nature arises. Nature, just like us, can change its
appearance without changing itself. Even if there's a contradiction, it doesn't matter at all. You
just need to follow the new command. I immediately want to die. I will probably commit suicide.
But that is unavoidable.


It's not caused by mental illness. It's because I'm in a marriage that goes against nature.
Because of that, my ego wavers. It wavers and then disappears. While writing 'I,' I don't know
where I am at all, and yet I'm completely unconcerned by it, not lost, just continuing to write. It's
not that I'm writing because I want to; I'm not even communicating enough to feel like I'm being
made to write. It's simply because when I am a beast, I sense the presence of the pack, yet I
live as a human in a place separate from that nature. When I am completely transformed into
something else, facing the death that occurred there, I feel a sense of unease about myself as
an un-dead human. That's not a personal feeling, nor is it my personality; it's the ability of us
who have become beasts. If I avoid it, I'll die. But even if I don't avoid it, I'll die. It's something
different from lifespan. I am human, but I was Homo Habilis. The sunset I saw while driving after
leaving the dinosaur museum was large enough to be a child's skull. In the nature I saw there, I
did not exist at all; not only was I not born, but humans weren't there either. The mini-car's
gasoline was running low, but regardless, I saw the car, the gasoline, the
insurance—everything—transforming into individual fern leaves. That, unequivocally, was my
eyes. I screamed. Baring my teeth, I screamed. No one heard my voice. The radio volume was
at maximum, predicting tomorrow's weather. But I screamed not as a human, but as a droplet of
water climbing a leaf vein. It's no use cursing the absence of humans. Because I wasn't there.
The scenery kept changing, but in the end, it wasn't my movement but merely the passage of
time. This road doesn't connect further ahead, nor is it retreating in fear. It's the act of crossing a
contradictory bridge on a single geta. That bridge offers no way to cross it other than
abandoning me, unless I use a witty retort. Forgetting the sensation of pain. Pretending it never
happened.

To bring about a state of pure terror. Fidgety mice. Yet, this is by no means a regression. A
potential swarm. It's different from animals of the same kind flocking together. It's invisible. Hard
to see. A lone hunter visits a certain place. He has no memory of this place. Yet, the hunter
senses the presence of survivors. He feels he's not alone. But there's no sign of them. What is
the enemy? He must start by searching for the enemy. The firearms he possesses are nothing
special. The hunter has a criminal record. He has killed before. But that is completely irrelevant.
This is a different place, meaning it's a different planet. He realizes this at night. He also knew
that what he saw in the daytime wasn't the moon. Hunters each possess their own techniques.
These are not only what they learned from their predecessors, but like a southerner who spends
his life on a boat from birth, the very swaying of the waves is his ground. Plants heal him. That,

too, is a weapon. However, what inhabited that place was something unfathomable. He couldn't
even guess where it was hiding. What did he even come here to do in the first place? There
wasn't even a command. Just as he thought he saw a flash of light, his consciousness would
fade, and before he knew it, he would sometimes find himself in the forest. He senses a
presence. Something is behind him. It might be a visible branch. There are spots where the sun
shines and the air is distorted. Animal trails are also like that. They don't just remain as
presences. They are a part of the body, a landmark, and at the same time, a warning. Even if
there's a single louse, a louse alone cannot be a living creature. There's no such space
anywhere. Even the human who creates such a space must infiltrate a supermarket somewhere
to acquire a basket. At that moment, even with just a leaf swaying, one can perceive the
possibility of a swarm. In terror. The hunter still doesn't know his objective.


He briefly forgets that he is destined to die. That tranquilizer also gets mixed in with the hunter's
targets. In the end, looking at the forest, he finds himself. His reflection on the river's surface
appears to be a different creature. What is invisible is not transparent. It's so close to the
hunter's perception that it could even be called his skin. We are watching. More than terror, we
are looking forward to when he will be killed. We, too, are the enemy. At that moment, the
swarm loses sight of the enemy. The enemy disappears. It ceases to be a battle between
individuals. Sweat and forest leaves are equally secreted from the hunter. Something opaque,
not transparent. The hunter holds a firearm. He walks step by step. Simultaneously, he is being
encroached upon. His feet are already slightly crumbling. Sweat has become a solvent. Hair
emerged from the sound. That bushy, hairy sound comes from afar. And then it vanished. His
foot landed in a puddle. It's a bottomless swamp. Countless microorganisms are underground.
They are holding a meeting. The intruder must consider whether to go inside or build a camp
outside. But there's no time for such things, not ever. There's still no objective. The hunter even
forgets why he came. It is the enemy necessary for sleep. There is no society here. The
identification card in the hunter's pocket is regarded here as a knife for cutting off berries. Its
sharpness is not considered. The enemy never appears. But inside the hunter, it begins to build
a nest. We can't see it either. It's not something to be seen from a different angle. The nest
formed inside the body belongs to no one. No one sleeps. It is the hunter's mind that mistakenly
sleeps. 'Let's take a break,' the hunter utters words from a time when he wasn't like this. There
is no rest here. At this point, the hunter has become a potential swarm. Not a member. Just a
single finger. Perhaps just a nerve. The enemy does not appear. He won't even realize he's
been devoured. There was no pain to begin with. The swarm has no sensation.

I met the magician Lin Har everywhere. It's not strange. Lin Har is everywhere. Rather, it's a
matter of course. I've never asked where Lin was born. She makes no mistakes. That's because
she doesn't judge. Lin never dissects. She sees all human transformations as they are. In other
words, Lin is a collective. Not a single person. Lin propagates. The first time I met her was in
San Francisco. Lin was under the bridge. She was holding up something like a headdress
towards cars waiting at a traffic light. At first, I thought she was a peddler or something. Lin,
wearing a headdress made of combined fruits like apples and pineapples, approached and
began to speak with her fingers. Maybe she couldn't hear. I thought it was sign language.

However, it wasn't expressing any particular words. I was watching through the car window. She
seemed to be urging me to buy 'something, just one thing.' At least, that's how it appeared. But
Lin had nothing to sell. None of the other passengers tried to listen to her. Of course, no words
were coming out, nor was there a message written on a cardboard box asking for charity. She
should have just been a passerby. But my car never moved. The engine remained on. I was on
the national highway. Horns must have been honking behind me. But I couldn't hear them.
Shouts must have been flying too. I was instantly captivated. Something dwelled in Lin's
fingertips. Something was happening there. I scrutinized her. I leaned forward. Lin first vibrated
her index finger, creating an intense waveform. That was the beginning. Lin conveyed to me that
she was born from that.


It was the language of fingers. Sign language is merely a window, a door at the boundary with
hearing people. It distinguishes what cannot be heard, and it is a rope to connect to that
apparatus, to the original community. Lin's fingers, on the other hand, had a completely different
structure. Lin and I, who were there, had completely become one substance. It was not a
dialogue. Of course, I didn't need to read anything either. It wasn't that there was one party, and
another, and then language. We were looking at the sky. From where? Not from the car window.
It was a sandy beach. Lin Har, who came out of the forest, gathered everyone scattered around,
such as driftwood and stones, and pointed her finger. She drew an arc. It was daytime. Around
us were fishermen napping. They all ate and slept in the same place. We had finished our
morning work and were on break. Following Lin Har's finger, we saw stars. We arranged our
companions, who were lying on the ground, according to those stars. The waveform created by
her finger emerged from the amniotic fluid where Lin Har slept, headed towards the beach, and
connected with the horizon. In the distance, I heard the sound of drums being beaten. It came
from beyond the forest. Inside or outside? I couldn't tell. We rubbed our hands together and
made bicycle motions. It wasn't that I went somewhere. We made bicycle motions. I became
part of the chain. A metallic sound rang out. In a different rhythm from the drums just now. I
could hear Lin Har breathing. We saw stars. It was daytime. The light struck the surface of the
water, creating countless tiny, invisible suns. 'Nyam' – that was the name of the star, and it never
changed. It was like Polaris. However, it was different from Polaris. According to them, Polaris
was moving. Living on the surface of the water, they had their own star charts. But it looked only
like an abstract painting. It was like a calendar pasted in every house's toilet, and at first, I only
recognized it as a mere drawing. Stars are not there to confirm one's position. We tried to open
our mouths, following Lin Har's finger. We didn't actually utter it. It wasn't something to be felt
either.


I was looking at an emakimono (picture scroll). The stars weren't moving; all the movement of
the stars was in the sky. Nyam grew in multiple forms within a single sky. However, Nyam does
not change. It's the same for us: even if our minds or bodies change, our names don't. Of
course, in reality, our names do change. We're given temporary names at birth because we
aren't truly 'there.' But that's just a temporary form. Lin Har created a fiction. It was a five-layered
stage. We all came to see it. Even though it was daytime. As the waveform connected with the

horizon, a man in a boat appeared from the opposite side. The man intertwined his index and
middle fingers. We became tools, and we became birds. There were no commands. There was
no choice. We just remembered. I was there in 1730. I was in front of Miles Davis. No, that man
wasn't Miles. He was the man before that. He was clearly Black. There were no Black people
living around here. No one had arrived at the port yet. Regulations at the port must have been
strict. In other words, it wasn't official trade. This man wasn't here as a human. I had offered to
join this organization. Lin Har was there too. She was a woman, but he was Black. Under the
bridge. What these two scenes had in common was the bridge. That is Nyam. Nyam is different.
It is changing. But it is the same emakimono. I got out of the car and didn't mind leaving it
stopped in the middle of the road. There were no humans under the bridge. Lin Har lived in a
place that didn't seem like a human nest. There were no walls or anything. Lin Har carefully
made a gesture of opening a door. I entered through the wall. Lin Har saw it and wasn't
surprised, but she pricked her right finger into her left palm. There was nothing there. That's
what we felt. There was nothing. In reality, it's different. All kinds of components, molecules, are
there.


We couldn't enter. But Lin Har had shattered it all. I perceived it like a noren (traditional
Japanese fabric divider). It was thicker than a brick wall. No matter how many layers, for mice,
any number of walls makes no difference. They had no cross-sections. Even if you look at a
nest in cross-section, it's merely our perception. Lin Har's home under the bridge was the same.
Lin Har conveyed that they were a collective, and that multiple collectives, like Nyam, would
enter into each other and transform. 'It's because you walked. You walked by car,' Lin Har said.
Beside her was one mouse, and one dove. The rest, I didn't know if it was a fox or a meerkat. It
didn't matter. It was neither a symbol nor anything else. It was unmistakably an animal, and it
was different from us. They were not domesticated pets or anything. Perhaps something
different arrived each time. It might have even been Lin Har's hair. Hair was scattered
everywhere. On the sand, we sat as if we were part of the scenery. There was no conversation.
Her fingers were still moving. I was inside Lin Har, looking at the sky together. The bridge was
made of concrete. The stains were some kind of water droplets. But to me, they looked like
clouds, or distant plants. There were many temperatures, and no matter which we chose, we
were in the same place. I was allowed to join the collective there. There were no rituals
whatsoever. Rituals are not contracts of primitive societies. I didn't have a pen or anything. Lin
Har said that was fine. What she handed me was just a pebble. It didn't even glow. 'There are
countless clouds here. No stars,' Lin Har said, rolling it around in her palm. Her movement and
the stone were opposite. It wasn't resisting.


This indicated that this was not a society. Lin Har invaded me. It was like a virus. Once inside
me, she detonated the inner explorer. A small crack formed. Like a chapped wound. It wasn't
cold outside. I saw fire. The temperature was kept constant. That's when it happened. When we
became opaque. There was no music anywhere. There were speakers. There was a record
player. There were no records, no instruments. But it merely served as a watchtower. Nothing
could be heard from the speakers. Nothing was heard. Lin Har is quiet. There's no point in

straining my ears. To hear is to create. I am not writing to avoid going mad. I am listening. I cut
off my ears. It was not a ritual. It was just an action. I became only action. It wasn't that there
was an inside to me; I was one of the insides. When I'm on a train, my blood vessels throb. That
doesn't mean the train and my body are reacting; it means the train has arrived at the station
within my body. We have no blood ties. Our species are different, our genera are different.
Some have long noses, while others, like me, not only can't see distant things but treat them as
non-existent. However, that is the inside of the body. It is not a group formed by rumors. It is a
genuine group. We were proliferating. However, it doesn't have the kind of spread that fills up
territory. Instead, it's like skin. Skin proliferates. We already know that. Our existence was called
a plague in town. When I was alone on the bridge, it was a presence that could simply be
ignored. But now, we have become a plague. Just as Lin Har appears everywhere, we
appeared there at any time.


Whether it was family or the presence of a passport, it didn't matter there. We didn't move there.
We pointed at the sky. There was no territorial sea. The forest underwent an accelerating
transformation that showed no change, becoming a weapon. There was no connection between
me and Lin Har. The man before Miles was also like that. Meerkats and pebbles had nothing in
common. The collective that emerged there was impossible to perceive. Humans could only fear
the transmission happening there as a plague. Moreover, they wouldn't try to escape the
situation. They aimed to eradicate the pathogens. They submitted petitions, issued warnings.
But it only led to catastrophe. And like a festival, people's fear enabled further transmission.
However, nature chooses to take such a form. The collective we created was not an accident. It
transcended accident. I wouldn't call it inevitable. Because it was contrary to nature. But what is
contrary to nature does not become anti-nature. Rather, on the contrary, nature can only be born
by being contrary to nature. The creation of nature. Creation of heaven and earth is fiction, but
there are things that can only be overcome by it. The more one fears natural disasters, the more
the giant whale in the earth emits an eerie roar. What connects groups of things with no
commonality is language. It is completely different from the act of combining existing things. We
can even converse with microorganisms. There is no tool there to do so; no tools. The nature
seen there has no words. To meet a completely new nature in the same place. That is made
possible by a union contrary to nature, but the method is not transmitted. It is realized by a virus.
The possibility of forming groups, completely different from families and nations, arises by
following the wind or from indeterminate sexual unions. It is not born from anger, and it is by no
means resistance.


An accident of consideration. An unwanted birth. The Antichrist. I was questioned. But by
whom? There was no one there. Of course, there were humans. Everywhere. They didn't
appear from nowhere. They had no homes. He was in the midst of it. In the midst of humans
with no place to return to. So, just because there's a voice doesn't mean you don't have to
answer. I won't resist it either. But there's no need for me to search for my house or try to go
home either. My mind wasn't blank. Many grasses grew there. Is there a name for them? There
was no name. It went against my memory. I had memories too. They weren't lost. But there's no

need to search for them. A state where nothing is resolved. That continued on and on. It didn't
feel like it would last forever. Instead, that excitement I felt, only three seconds had passed. But
was it 'only' three seconds? I was moving at high speed during that time. I was also restrained.
There was no need to struggle. Nor was I staying put. I just ate and lived my life. Did I eat? I
hadn't prepared a meal. There was a plate, and rice grains remained. Someone had made it.
Without minding the time, I put it in my mouth, washed it down with water, and continued my
work. The magician remembered again. The opposite also happened to us. We were the tip of a
cape. The tip, unlike an island or the ground, was different. We had time, but it wasn't flowing
time; it was stagnant time.


Time wanders, not knowing where to go. It drifts restlessly, without ever getting stuck. It cannot
stay in one place. And yet, it pays no attention to the roads built for movement. Because main
roads have an entrance, several small exits, and eventually a terminus. Time does not go there.
He is not perverse. Nor is he trying to cause chaos. He has no intention. Rather, he is confused
and disoriented. He feels fear. Before he knows where to go, he realizes in his old age that he
never learned how to move his feet, step by step, when he was young. In that respect, he is a
child. But his body is completely shattered, and the changes in his skin, having gone through
every conceivable experience, are stained like paintings. Yet, not a single bit of it has settled
into him. He is still, at a junction or in transit, perpetually thinking about where to go. He answers
everything in every single moment. He doesn't make plans; he simultaneously feels all
possibilities. That's why he cannot get stuck. The idea of the 'next step' has completely fallen
into a hole, it's missing. The missing part, too, is sucked into something like a vacuum cleaner,
bypassing several tubes. And it headed towards the junction. Passengers trying to catch the
next plane or ship in transit are walking through a transparent town, while practicing how to walk
on that land. However, we don't even have a town to begin with. There are moving towns. But
they don't move with feet, like something Archigram would embody on paper. They hardly move
at all. Yet, the territory is unknown, they are endlessly deliberating about where to draw the
boundary, clocks are destroyed, and the town center is engulfed in flames. That's not a reason;
it's a single foothold. There are no feet. Those who live here also have no feet. Feet are a
short-sighted solution. There is no path here where moving forward means there's a front, or a
right or a left. Will the feet get stuck there? Even as a large crowd continues to press from
behind.


The reason a river without feet flows is due to its simplicity. There is no defiance. There is no
giving up. There is no will to progress. There are stagnant parts, and it can rot, but after a water
strider passes over it, it merely utters one word: it is still a river. The scaffolding sways
precariously. Workers come, but they are only day laborers, constantly changing shifts, and the
sound of their feet on the scaffolding varies. Furthermore, as the scaffolding gets taller, it flexes,
entering a realm where there are no straight lines, completely unlike the blueprints. The bamboo
scaffolding of Hong Kong, that itself is the city, and the buildings shaped by it are fossils and
fuel. Fires occur every time. It's not destruction; it's a movement that generates steam, a power
station that enables electric dialogue. In other words, our power generation always occurs in

unexpected places. The firefighters are all laborers, and the pale workers swaying in the bus
call for help out the window. That's not a shout; it's background music for labor. A transit town. A
place that doesn't change no matter where you are. Where everything is sold the same way,
and the faces of the sellers are also the same. Skin color no longer matters, no one
distinguishes between types of coins, and in fact, there are thieves who look at the silver
content. The thieves adhere to religious rules, and they have no material desires. The weapons
of their leader, Behram, who acts alone, always had coins sewn into them. As for weapons, from
an outsider's perspective, they were closer to something that caresses things, and they had the
advantage of not being considered weapons even when interrogated by the police, though in
reality this was not the case; their religious will regarding their eyes was manifested there. This
reality, mistakenly believed to be a surveillance society, tries to guide how to escape it, how to
hide within it, but that is a clear mistake. In a transit town, everything should be done in reverse;
instead of resisting, one should simply live in opposition. In an unclear world, one lives
opaquely. Only what one does not perceive becomes a luxury. Throw away a cigarette, and then
smoke it again.



At that moment, whose cigarette was it? In transit, everyone has a destination. The electronic
signboard announces it only by the disappearance of points. However, there is no 'place' there,
and we are no different from being in a giant labyrinth. Don't look at the signs. Don't let go of
your hands. Don't judge by numbers, don't change your stride by the color on the floor. Just
don't let go of your hands. What to do in a giant labyrinth: see nothing. Become blind. Not
deciding 'I won't see anything anymore,' but saying 'I cannot see.' People check their status on
the electronic signboard and head towards one of the exits displayed there (which, in reality,
isn't an exit). However, there is no light that evokes a path, no light that creates a path. Light
makes plants flourish and attracts insects. When we reach a branching point, what we see is the
premonition of the space that path holds. In that premonition, there are plants and insects,
billboards created by humans drawn to them, and structures like the Empire State Building of
that era, built by fickle tastes, standing in rows. It's a garan. A garan. The voices of people
crowded that garan. The man and woman who were there. The woman's shadow. The place
where the woman used to be. The man they meet again in that place. There is some sake
needed there. Or anything else, it doesn't have to be sake. No need for spices or raw materials.
What's needed is to become the town. If only we could go somewhere other than here, that
would be enough. That was enough. The branching point is not a blade that divides us. It is a
security checkpoint that doubles us, makes us enormous, or makes us microscopic. We enter.
Though I say 'inside,' there is no roof. We are in a line, but we can always turn back, and if
someone is dawdling, we can go ahead on our own. What if it's not a human? Of course, the
method doesn't change. Just check the tooth marks, glance at the angle of the feet, and the
degree of muscle. Anyway, they won't do anything.






Refer to how the doves walked when I charged into their flock on a bicycle. They didn't even
notice us from the start. Humans whose combat ability becomes zero just by riding a bicycle
don't even need to trace back their memories. Exit an exit, and there's another entrance. In
other words, this isn't even a path. However, there are several checkpoints. There are
gatekeepers. But there's no need to answer anything. Rather, it causes confusion. We answer
too much. Through branching, we gain countless perspectives. These cannot be viewed all at
once in a single monitor control room. What television brought was clarity regarding human
organs. The more we try to clarify, the more we forget the branching. We judge that we cannot
proceed if we are caught up in that, just as Burroughs, in his later years, obsessed over
recollections of his pet cat and close friends, as he tried to write diaries. Television has not
reflected on Burroughs's mistake at all. Rather, it might be Burroughs's own rebellion against the
fact that his novels are not seen as paintings. People buy books with money and read them. But
to read means to read a slider, to swing towards the core of it, like a Mariners batter who swings
three thousand times with his eyes closed. The ball is drawn in. The hardball forgets its
trajectory. There is no monitor room. That is, even the ball's trajectory, even counts like 'out' or
'strike,' Burroughs can modify in any way he pleases. That would suggest the existence of
another calculator, not the randomness that action painting forgot. Create it now. You must
create it. The calculator. Don't rely on capital; just borrow as much as you need. Because in the
future, even elementary school students will use it anyway. There's nothing to worry about. Just
keep borrowing. You can call workers from every shadow. Don't write invitations. Don't look for
anyone. The mistake in searching for people is to publish their photographs. The same goes for
cats. By doing so, disappearance is solidified. One only has to not acknowledge disappearance.
Do not rely on personality at all. We have bodies.


It's an unavoidable truth. But there's another truth simultaneously: we quickly forget it. We
forget. Failure occurs when we forget. Failure highlights what was forgotten. The failed person
stood at a crossroads. He is a forgotten man. A forgotten cat. Instead of climbing the concrete
walls that tear at collars and fill everything, it digs in its claws. Continuing to scrape. Like a
spoon in a hole. Every night, jailbreaks happen at the convenience store where you can get
plastic spoons. This is also instigated by the twin Chinese part-timers. A man successful in love
stops by the convenience store late at night. It's like a 24-hour phone call. The faces of the
people there are identical, and the man, who arbitrarily decided it was just "that kind of place,"
doesn't see the temple. This is a temple. Its creation wasn't complicated at all. It was simple. It
was designed by a different circuit than a person who eats because they're hungry, because it
was needed there. There is a blueprint, of course. That's common to all architecture. Even in
any place, even at that junction, there's a blueprint. There's a blueprint for those who don't
follow the land registry. It's as follows: There is a place. A place fresh in memory. There's a
stonemason. He's working. A stonemason can't be learned through education. A stonemason
has a process separate from creation or fortune-telling. It's not about chipping away at stone.
Stone isn't given a form to begin with. Humans can't proceed with misunderstandings. That
blueprint is buried under fallen leaves in advance. That's why the stonemason is in the coppice.
While gazing at the shine of an acorn wearing its cap. Another stonemason is moving. The man
under the stone could transform endlessly. Not only his own appearance, but also the nature

and form of food. The branching occurs there. The man decided to eat the stone. He bit into it
before he even realized it wasn't something to eat.

Though it had a somewhat strange taste, it wasn't inedible. That's how the coppice, under
transformation, pretends to be lean. The man had been sleeping the whole time. To wake up, he
needed a solvent, and to buy it, he had to apply for a leave pass. That's how the stonemason
went out. And then, he united with another stonemason. There was no premonition of encounter
or meeting there. It wasn't entirely unexpected; he had simply forgotten. The blueprint had been
there all along.
A giant cylinder lay rolling by the roadside. Covered in filth. Our filth. Transformed, it had
become like a monster. The monster spoke, "It's been a while since you left, but you're still here,
and that isn't you." There's a convenience store nearby. The man, exhilarated by his connection
with the woman, had simply slept in the coppice. The twin Chinese asserted, "We don't sell
alcohol to minors," and called over the customer waiting behind them by name. A silence hung
in the air for a while.
The man started to share personal details about his previous night's events with the Chinese.
When it came to congratulations, the conversation shifted. The twins pulled out a sake bottle
from under the register counter, poured three cups of sake into plastic cups, and encouraged a
toast. Just then, another customer arrived, ordering cigarettes. The two, moving to the adjacent
register, acted as if they were one person, with one of the Chinese performing a body double.
There should have been no flaw in this. It was their usual behavior, and even if caught on
surveillance cameras, there was no reason for them to be questioned. In that instant, the man
poured another solvent into his cup. The two fell into a deep sleep. The convenience store's
power was cut. This was connected to the phone being disconnected.
Multiple stonemasons had already been called together. The cylinder glowed faintly, illuminated
by light fixtures, and the man was visible only as a shadow. He began to dig there, with a plastic
spoon.


The group living underground conspires with subterranean creatures like moles. The man has
acquired not only electricity, gas, and water but all forms of infrastructure, and a branching is
occurring there too. The man has given a single path two or more uses. That in itself became a
"buy." A "buy" at first glance seems only like a choice. There, too, exists a foothold. It stands
precariously, swaying, but no wind blows. No rumbling of the earth is heard. What the man
hears are the sounds of people coming and going, and a window where he pauses for a
moment. The people looking at the window don't know the man is beneath it. Even at the end of
a damp path, the man was still busily moving around, never stopping. He was also an
insomniac. He didn't even sleep from exhaustion. He just kept digging. Without meaning,
without reason. The other creatures were astonished.
Before they knew it, the temple stood, without an entrance. The man is still inside. And he's
probably still walking around busily. He never ran. To him, it was like stagnant air. He didn't need
oxygen. He was breathing, but it was no longer due to lung activity. His experience, as if
sleeping, was only half active, and his pupils were vertically elongated and thin like eyelashes.
The inside of the temple was bustling like a market, with hushed human voices. But it wasn't

lunchtime. White-clad objects walked a certain street from end to end, then turned back. Even
though it was a pedestrian paradise above, no music played here. The path continued to be
excavated endlessly, yet there was no limit. There was no concept of property, and no matter
how much the ground was dug, it was merely the movement of soil. The soil particles
temporarily accepted the man's actions and then returned to their original collective.
Even when called collaboration, they weren't fulfilling the same objective. Nor were they moving
in entirely separate ways; their actions, unrestricted, gradually unfolded. The path finally
reached us. That didn't mean the end of the journey. There was no ground, and the soil had
nowhere to go. Would they emerge above ground then? The surface had vanished.


The place where the man and we met was far away. The cape referred to a place where the
ground had vanished. There was an ocean there. The ocean didn't stretch endlessly; it referred
to a space the man couldn't see. There were countless water droplets, yet the man didn't drown.
A man who couldn't drown. Even a boat would have looked like the sea to him. He had heard
about fishermen who could read the wind for a long time. He knew such people existed. He had
been thinking about this in a place where no wind blew. That's why when he met us, he didn't
ask anything. That was the primary condition.
The man showed us his excavation tools. Of course, they were all swallowed by the waves. This
saved us the trouble of explaining that they hadn't disappeared. The water hit the shore and
circulated for a while. Which was his own state? To convey his state, the next action was
necessary. However, time had already stagnated. Time appeared calm, as if it had been running
alongside the seasons just moments ago. Yet, it was also a weapon, and the man quickly
braced himself. Only his body's reactions still remained.
We considered the man's treatment. We didn't hold a meeting. There was no dialogue here, and
personal opinions were quickly swallowed by the waves anyway. That's why the man had come
this far. The people walking in town hadn't noticed yet. The hole remained open there, left
unattended. Perhaps one or two people had fallen in and died. It wasn't that deep a hole, but
there was nothing to be done. The construction had already finished.
There was a temple. No people. However, people weren't everything, and the temple was fully
equipped. There was power. Lights could be turned on. The waves became water droplets, and
when they hit the shore, a few drops landed. If absorbed by the rocks, it would somehow work
out. Still, insects formed a rampart. No one was afraid, and there was no cause for conflict there
in the first place. Yet, there was always a premonition of war. Sand in cloth bags and rain's
encirclement constantly represented danger. The man, however, wore a face that said he didn't
care.


It's not about everything changing. It's about arranging things as they are, not as a change. Not
our parts, not securing personnel, but arranging the state as it is. That is the cape. We are not
the ground, nor a rocky shore, nor waves, nor the sea. Even if gulls fly, their droppings won't fall
on us. Yet, the man knew this, and it was inexplicable.
The man has no history. The man has no particular reason. He simply dug, and there was no
ground to begin with, and the soil, after being dug, moved around and returned to its original

stratum. Perhaps the man was a magician. Reading our arrangement, he also determined his
own position and pointed out directions, even though compasses should have been destroyed
long ago, leaving him immobile. In other words, we might have transformed into a ship, and that
wasn't even a port.
The ship's bottom cracked, and it began to take on water. No one escaped. We didn't exist to
preserve life in the first place. Some took water into their mouths, but it was no different from
drinking water; it was nutrition. The nutrition changed our state, and our arrangement was
replaced. The man became a leader, but his figure had vanished. Even though his figure was
gone, commands frequently reached the tents at the foot of the mountain. Alpine plants grew
there. We had crossed mountains several times. The ship carried on our heads had been
brought in with great effort, involving a large number of personnel.
From the alliance between the man, who was a nameless underground creature, and us, we
became connected with the infiltrating water, spring water, groundwater, and all the organisms
that thrived there. This included unconscious things like magnesium and potassium. Those are
also human, the man said. The man believed himself to be a leader.


He was actually already in decline, but that didn't make him flee to the back hills. Instead, he
infiltrated a moving town, a town that shouldn't exist. Moreover, he didn't sneak in past
gatekeepers; he wasn't circumventing anything. He was called. He was invited.
Across the sea, the man, who was thought to be a spy, could extract the time contained within
any substance, like a component, rather than just knowing its history. This is called medicine.
He was skilled in medicine. He had no qualifications. Medicine isn't cultivated by qualifications
or by dissection. It begins by falling out of the human hierarchy. He carried a blade, but that too
wasn't viewed with suspicion. He wasn't blamed for having no name. He just had to state one.
Humans obsess over being named. However, looking at all living things, plants, and even
minerals, it's rare, even ridiculous. A named human lives the life of another until they die. This is
thought to be a rule, but it's merely a method. A named human then purges everything outside
their own skin. The scenery they saw eight hundred years ago is also that person. How can that
be named? When it can't even be seen? In other words, the fact of being unseen isn't about the
person, but the environment itself. Yet, people see. Even if it doesn't register on the retina, they
see.
Is the act of naming born from fear of this? Can one claim to know it? It's certainly more than
just a custom, but you can't even name a pet dog. Does a named dog remember because it
gets food for it? No. It's simply accepting the space of fact, and if that space were to disappear,
there would only be murder there. Dogs devour. With their fangs. But humans can no longer
even see those fangs. This isn't complacency because they're wearing armor; the armor was
shed long ago. It's an armor made by the act of naming itself. That armor is fragile.


It is fragile, yet there is no corresponding weapon for it. Even a soldier holding a flamethrower is
named. It's the same even if it's just a symbol like 036 or A. A name with meaning is no different
from a symbol. The man had realized this through medicine.
Medicine is an escape. It is a rope that slips out of our bodies. Whether that rope ascends or
descends, or obeys gravity, the man found an entirely different method. That is, those reported

as spies by their surroundings possess numerous methods. These are different from moving on
time or having preferences. Imported goods are always unnamed. That's why they are so
captivating; whether they are strange or useful is not the point. Medicine completely conquers
that. An alliance with instruments. An adherence to instruments. A contract with instruments.
The man's hands, five fingers no longer enough, grew to six, seven, then eight, increasing with
each passing day. Originally, he was a private physician to a certain lord. However, that is
uncertain. The texts themselves were written to curry favor with the lord, and the 365 pulse
points corresponded to a year, with nine central nerves merely the number of states formed
when a nation came into being. The human body and the nation always have such a
relationship; though actually completely different, humans live as if they are the same.
Separately, the man had infiltrated a group of butchers. There, exposing organs and nervous
systems one by one, he focused not on the function of each part, but on the relationship
between parts. In fact, even if the stomach were gone, it would have no bearing on human life;
the person would simply be reorganized as a human without a stomach. The gatekeepers didn't
know this. Submitting documents was enough. Handwriting. Footprints. Every trace has multiple
branches. If you ignore the branches, it becomes a tool for management; if you focus on the
branches, it becomes an expanding skin.
From the man's room, though the smell was suppressed, the expanding skin knew no bounds.
The protruding organs were so completely spread out, down to every single attack, that they
were mistaken for dried plants.


He said that by burning dried grass like incense, many young people felt they had stepped into
paradise. The man did not restrain them. He whispered the entire process of his work, using
only sound, into the ears of the sleeping youths. Mistakes occurred in many places. However,
they didn't lead to the destruction of visible structures. It was another kind of destruction. Not
even the destruction of thought, but the destruction of time. By this, they conspired with the
man.
What about us? He met us. The man was a cape. Not a tip of earth or a sliver of rock, but we
eroded the man. The man was divided into many passages. When we stood at a fork, we
collapsed completely before choosing a path. Waves were coming from behind. The deck
gradually loosened its screws, and after a while, the planks vanished without a trace. They
became indistinguishable from driftwood. We couldn't use them to build a temporary shelter
again.
The town became invisible. The lights were on. Not the lights of the passages. The man had
already lost his eyes and had forgotten about lights. Many lines ran along the walls. Did we
need to repair them? But the lines, too, were covered by waves. Water slipped between the
lines and the rock face. Where had the man seen that movement? Some went back. The waves
felt nostalgic. Grass grew from the rocks. Grass appeared everywhere. Some of us were there
too. The intensifying waves broke the rocks and submerged them. The rocks, thanks to years of
interaction with the waves, had made their mark. We couldn't go back. It was all rock, and those
who had seen the sky when it was still young now resided in its scars. We even entered the
lines. We became the flow of electrons. There was no right or left there. No town. But there was
a lawn, and the sky was black, though it wasn't night. It wasn't night. Perhaps countless

creatures were there too. Not a single scream was heard, but a quiet breath pretended to be the
wind. The branching deformed like a human body, and it had an outline separate from the
surrounding atmosphere. We became nostalgic.


It was like a gathering, and we hadn't been to one in a while. The man didn't tell us to come
over. He looked as if he couldn't even speak. His face spread like molten metal, dripping from
every hole. Striations were visible, but unlike those on the rock face outside, these looked
artificial. Was this a command? Some of us pondered for a while.
Consciousness leaked from the wooden splinters, a hair-like consciousness. The hairs were
wet, drifting on the water's surface. At some point, the waves had formed puddles in the
passage. Some of these hairs connected to nerves, creating a sphere entirely separate from the
sky. It wasn't something to cross. It was useless for movement. These hair-thin conductors,
looking mostly like a child's scribble, merged with those extending from the surroundings,
covering the passage like a roof. That too was a passage. We, now electrons, traversed it.
There was a market, and a temple too. We should have been moving through such places at
high speed, but the view from the window remained constant.
Sometimes the flow prompted a delay. No one had commanded it. No one had gone astray. It
was like a tire moving so fast that it appeared to be standing still. Tire tracks stretched endlessly.
We arrived at a place we had never reached before. Nothing to see. No clouds. But these were
merely the sensations we had perceived until now, simply actions. A new sound reached us. It
was a telegram from the wooden splinters communicating with a distant forest. The man was
also a telegraph operator. The man's form suddenly became shaggy, then immediately turned
into dust as if a balloon had burst. He wasn't indicating a location. There was no movement
here. It just was. That forest was a point, and even a single fish could be seen as that point.
However, the cape where we were remained in motion. It moved, painted black, like a giant
fishing boat. We were using radar. We meticulously observed schools of fish, cloud formations,
and the movement of the wind. In fact, we were trying to program their movements. The man
might have been a devil.


The man didn't just live in the town; he was well-known and admired. He ran a pharmacy,
practicing his unique brand of medicine. People gathering at the intersection quickly started
making fake medicines, even mimicking the packaging. However, no one could predict even the
weather. The man wasn't a fortune teller. His "magic" was science.
But truly, the important thing in science is experimentation, and it must remain incomplete. Only
incomplete things can become medicine; all pharmaceuticals proven by science are nothing
more than horoscopes, far removed from true medical art.
We are no longer the sea. We possess circuits and tried to see what lay beyond. Yet, the scent
of trees beyond the circuits vanished in an instant. Because of this, we were mostly at rest. At
the cape, we could move everywhere. We were permitted to do so. It wasn't a privilege, but we
could pass through that location. This was thanks more to our ability to sing or describe the
shoreline than any technology we possessed. These weren't things that could be taught, nor
were they innate talents. That's why we are resting now.

Still, we couldn't see anyway. We had no skin, and we were imprecise. Even without a doorbell,
we were always there. Sometimes, the place where we stood became a gathering point. The
man moved erratically. He only appeared to be standing still. Was it our own agitation that made
us perceive his movement? We even mistook our own vibrations for the man's outlandish
actions. Only fragments of memory remained. Emotions were disconnected. We didn't even
know the way we came. The cape is uneven, constantly eroded by waves, by insects, by wind,
and by time. Yet, the cape just stands there.


He's on an endlessly long journey, sitting on a chair. What's going on inside his head? He's just
wearing a suit, yet he's the cape. This is a contradiction. The cape is a manifold, and he's a fake
doctor who slipped in past the gatekeeper. He has no purpose. Even if he has emotions, they're
only for expression, not directed at anyone. Before showing identification, he makes medicine.
He possesses a passage before he's even caught. That passage is incomprehensible to anyone
because it's not a passage at all. It doesn't have the function to connect. Rather, it comes for
him alone.
It's an opaque liquid, sometimes blood. But whose is it, where was the tube made, does it
contain various nutrients, and is it really human blood? Without a label, we can't understand.
Yet, despite all this, the man enters. He rented a house and formed a family. Of course, it's a
fake, like living with theater troupe members. The cape is there, in a town that knows nothing of
the sea. The sea breeze blew. This is a fish market. The man isn't just an exceptional human.
I face an objection: "The Deleuze you depict isn't real." I respond: "Perhaps, but my becoming
Deleuze is real." The man applied to the town and became a human being. He paid taxes. But
the man simply continued to be the cape. That's all he was. This doesn't contain any deep
meaning; it's just a fact. This man speaks to no one, yet he doesn't reject anyone. He doesn't
quarrel with anyone, nor does he find common ground with anyone. Still, he pays taxes every
year and doesn't complain about anything the state does. Yet, as the cape, he continued to be
eroded every second. There's no pain. He can't see light ahead. Rather, he's overflowing with
light, making him blind. He can't see what's in front of him. He knows there's a front, but he can't
move straight. Yet, he has no eagerness to move forward. He only makes medicine, but even
that is mostly impossible to look inside. It's supposed to be a secret. There's nothing left in the
documents either.

The man doesn't exist. It's not even a culture to be passed down. It's just something that's made
and then vanishes on the spot. Yet, there are people who consume it. We were set up to enter
each of those people. The man claimed to be human, but it was actually something that
happened on a chair. A human like smoke, appearing in someone's story. Not a human, but an
event, like twilight or the sound of rain. Not constantly changing, but always being. Being there.
Being there when no one is. Being there when no sound is heard. Being there despite being
dead. Not even a rumor. Yet, why is it still there? If it crumbled or made a sound, you'd know
immediately. But it collides. It collides without a sound. Is it a wall, a fortress, a ship, a giant
rock? We don't even know what this collision is. Even though we've entered the lines, what's the
wiring like? Where does the power come from? More fundamentally, what is this thing

connecting in the first place? Were we actually able to infiltrate? Did we want to infiltrate? There
might be nothing on the other side.
But it can't be helped. There was an invisible boundary. It just collides, without any warning or
excuse. If you move your body quietly, you can easily infiltrate the next time. It's not defending
itself; it's just not showing itself. When a cup was projected, a shadow appeared. Someone
asked, "Who are you?" No, you don't have to answer that. "Who are you?" they insist loudly.
"Who are you?" I don't know. No, I can't answer. "I'm water." They're bound to retort, "What's
water?" Always. That's the voice from the unseen side, and it's not trying to mislead us.
Because the shadow has never seen water, even if it were itself. "You are water." Furthermore,
the shadow was confused. The meaning of being confused changes. Their confusion is invisible
to us. The man is between that shadow and us. He's been watching from there, sitting on a
chair.


As the cape, he was constantly threatened, but in reality, he was intently watching us. The
confused shadow was agitated and tried to move across the desk. It couldn't possibly move. We
held the cup. But the shadow said the reason it couldn't move was within itself—because it
knew it was water.
The shadow attempted suicide. But how? To erase itself, the shadow waited for night. It would
disappear in the darkness. Yet, there was an electric light. The outlets the man had pulled from
above ground had broken through rocks and were strung everywhere. Some breakers had
tripped. This was due to coordination with the surface. There was no need to illuminate
everything. But the man said "everything." He had his legs crossed. His break had grown long.
We felt our arms, which we possessed, slowly drooping.
The shadow moved. Finally, after five hours. The electric light illuminated the cup directly from
above. The shadow was once again transfixed, knowing it couldn't die. "You are water. You are
water in a cup." It sounded like a spell, but the shadow didn't hear it. For the shadow, sound had
a vastly different form than our sound.
The shadow and we are close. Both merely reduce or increase one dimension, while a ball in
another place rolls around. That means we weren't the shadow; we needed to cooperate with
the shadow to find the man. The man had already headed for the sea long ago. He couldn't
move on to the next task without finishing the current one. There was no penalty, and it wouldn't
cause him hardship in life. It was close to gravity, and also close to weightlessness. In other
words, something you can pass through if you believe it's not there. But for that, an unseen man
was needed.
We had already completely lost sight of what our original form was. Why did we suddenly
become plural? Where did "I" go? Who am "I"? We've lost track. But should we return, get stuck,
run away, or search for the man? The light from the lamp was dazzling. We, who formed a
group before even thinking about forming a flock, realized that the man who had vanished was
no longer there.


The Manule tribe, in such cases, begins different dances. After someone stops, they vomit. This
isn't because they had anything in their mouth beforehand. "By the river, I heard, I heard, I saw.

Bring a wooden stick. Draw a circle and dot." Humans separated from the pack have a
distinguishing feature: one more finger or one less. When the music suddenly stops, instead of
returning to daily life, they start performing a faster dance. No one knows when this moment will
come. It's forbidden to secretly learn new dances. Therefore, the only way is to change the
speed of the same type of dance.
Humans with irregular fingers dig holes and wait patiently for them to move through. Some
suffocate along the way. Some are eaten by wild beasts between villages. However, some,
conversely, eat the beasts with their bare hands. They have absolutely no intention of trying to
restore a community on the verge of collapse. They simply watch quietly from inside the hole as
things pass by. The scenery seen here later appears on the water's surface. At that point, the
community dies. It dies, and another community is born, but the rules themselves remain
unchanged. Some might call this evolution. However, those detached outsiders, without ever
letting the new chief of the community know they are human, crawl out of their holes and then
hide back in the dense jungle. The strange human-like patterns that appear on the water's
surface are shunned as terrifying. One dance technique perishes there. But this heightens the
secret, and reckless young people within it begin to pioneer new places. No one follows them.
The myths they always hold look on from behind at the utterly meaningless actions
(meaningless to the community, that is) of these stray humans. No one ever returns.
Hidden lives. Fishing boats lure out hidden lives. Human heads float on the waves. Their necks
are long, and their feet reach down to the ocean trench.

Clinging to the mast like a broken spine, that life is a reclusive grave robber. Yet, he carries out
rescues. He hasn't entered a pyramidal ant nest. He's speaking nonsense: "Waruri, ririru,
rubinurume, mezashitarankankanjirume." No sound can be heard. No, the storm was creating it.
It's a strange castaway who emerged from a mouth. He wasn't truly there. He's lurking in rice
paddies and on road shoulders. Beyond a sign that reads "Paleolithic Dwelling," what era is the
dwelling actually from? Even if one enters the cave, no sound is heard at all. Kenji Miyazawa
said there was a frog there, but he was only a writer for three months after moving to Tokyo. All
fairy tales are one-offs. When the story ends, when the transformation is complete, it's over.
Before the narrative concludes, the candle flame in the room mysteriously extinguishes, bringing
about the end. Each time, the story is discarded.
In Mardi, the precursor to Moby Dick, Melville has the first mate discuss the life and death of a
story while repeatedly rescuing Japanese people. "What the devil! These fellows are about to
eat the same food as us, under the same lamp, and they're bringing nothing but illusions that
shouldn't be given a thing. Sure, you can see the island sometime. But dark clouds have been
watching us for a while now, and is there even a woman there in the first place? I saw her. Don't
tell me it was a dream. I've been dreaming for a while, but they're all like radios, and if this
ocean is a radio, am I the knob? Who's been fiddling with the knob just now? It must be those
guys in the mess hall. You're devouring things in front of me like that. Why don't you tell me
what you're eating? Again and again, you pop your heads out of the waves. And each time, it's
a different person. I've had enough. Your words won't be recorded anywhere; you might as well
be left to drift. Just where did that woman in your mouth, whom you've been talking about, come
from? That's right, I still don't even know that you're here. Is an island like a tooth?" The drifting
tale left by Kenji Miyazawa and what is written here are consistent.




Of course, the eras described are different. However, Randolph Carter existed in all eras. Even
Kenji Miyazawa, the landscape architect, built a clock tower for that purpose. What appeared to
be a clock tower was actually an observation deck. There were no telescopes anywhere. True.
But telescopes aren't just for looking at stars, discovering new planets, adjusting angles, or
deducing one's destiny.
The island they arrived at bore no resemblance to an island, and the captain mistook it for a
whale. There are many stories of entering a whale; it's nothing particularly strange, nor anything
we should fear. His legs were gone, and perhaps because of this, he was deemed reckless.
Several slaves were sent in, but the slaves were already in a frenzy of ecstasy. What happened
there was the welcoming of the slaves. They had a custom of sowing seeds that would reverse
thought processes, believing that time would simply pass there. Such descriptions were seen
everywhere.
In 1883, a boy; in 1928, a man. King Sijaan, inheriting his land, began his own measurements,
crafting observation instruments comparable to his scholarly pursuits with instrument makers in
back alleys. These were so minute they were invisible to the naked eye. Yet, there was an
agitated crowd. At that time, the criterion for judgment was less about what was seen or unseen,
and more about whether something stirred the heart. The handle, with indentations at both
ends, had a hole for inserting a pinky finger, and frankly, the hole was vast. The king had no
compassion and was completely invisible to humans.
There are chimpanzees. Some of the chimpanzees Francis Bacon painted on canvas were
based on that literature, on bromides of the king published in cheap magazine articles. Some
research teams entered, spent many days there, and collected booklets of clipped magazine
articles. The work went on for days, not ending even at night, hard to leave, so everyone
decided to stay overnight. But the night was longer than usual, and it flowed slowly. Some
began to say, "It's not night. Night is night.”



But the problem is, whose night is it?" Modern Japanese poetry has made several mistakes, but
more importantly, a few animals snuck into it. A poet who claims, as if they witnessed it, that all
dinosaurs could fly is neither a poet nor a naturalist. They are a bird, merely experiencing an
atavism.
Nonetheless, various traces remain on the skull. By examining the brain's position alone, one
can determine the height and angle of a non-human's vision. King Sijaan was not only a
politician but also skilled in legislation, mathematics, and science. He turned to architecture as a
way to integrate these disciplines. However, he derived the law that it must be useless, and he
would venture into the morning market with a smile, almost at the same eye level as his citizens.
When shopping in the market, he used small coins. To produce these small coins in vast
quantities, a factory was built—so enormous it would later become the basis for mechanized
industries. Those who worked there could take home the very coins they had made. It was a
small-coin movement. No one in the market made large purchases; even bananas were sold
individually. Everything was sold individually.

Stories were quickly discarded. A disposable culture also existed there. All eaten and used
dishes were thrown away on the spot, and the fragments were observed as pottery shards, just
as they were. What happened there differed greatly from what's displayed in museums. No
matter how late the night, museum artifacts don't move, and any anomalies are just the security
guards' Arabian Nights. However, they are constantly wearing nooses. The gallows were in the
third-floor atrium. This was precisely 1730, the year the capital was moved, when boundaries
were restless in several places. It was the same under bridges.
King Sijaan first created an artificial lake. And then, a castle. The castle's construction continued
for over two hundred years. Kafka wasn't trying to depict the castle as a foggy town; it wasn't an
allegory. It was simply a fact. Not his fantasy.



Many people consider the world shaped by words—no, even a single tree, a blade of grass, a
nose hair, let alone the word 'said'—to be fiction. They call it a made-up story. However, it is fact,
and even if what was written dies, the construction continues. Even if a lake is artificial, as long
as fish are there, the deep-sea fish even deeper in the ground haven't yet seen humans. If they
haven't seen us, we don't exist. In other words, before the castle is a made-up story, we are the
ones who are made up. We haven't arrived yet. We haven't even become history." So said King
Sijaan.
The artisans, who had been creating numerous blueprints, toiled from early morning until dusk
in complete darkness. The King stood before them and shouted, "There is no plan. There isn't,"
then disappeared for several days. That's why Godard still has to make films with a production
budget of ten thousand dollars.
It's not something to be seen, nor is it being watched by stars. Today is different again. Yet, to
suddenly look up at the sky. To want to say it's the same sky. No matter how much it's corrupted
by exhaust fumes, it can't be different. The King's heart. The King is everywhere. The King is not
a factory that creates slaves. The King is not there. People don't create observatories in temples
built beforehand with text, with memos, on the ground. One can only say, "I'll try to imagine
something based on this." Why do things happen in the middle of a story? Why are there
endings? It's not like that. He doesn't even lay a foundation. Raising a finger, the King began
construction, disregarding his own design. The artisans were not elements of the town but within
himself, and the castle wall was over eight meters high. Their concept of direction gradually
regained freedom; all the compasses were collected, melted down, and quietly placed on one of
the observatories, "The Horse's Balance." There is no summary.
Before his recently retired predecessor, the King began to stir his finger in mid-air. His fingertip
glowed, it's still written on the castle walls with spray paint. No matter how deeply you dig, if our
consciousness isn't fish, water will never appear, said Saichō.


He was, above all, a calligrapher. The words in the air were sometimes mistaken for musical
scores, and for a time, the market vendors whispered about the possibility of a festival
beginning. Voices are contagious. A different airship, distinct from the one used for typing,
circled before the predecessor. How can I recount what's already been written here, but in a
different way? Pamphlets, synopses, blueprints – they always have constraints, with character

counts or time limits, which cannot be exceeded. But now there are fingers. Fingers have wings.
Feathers fell.
The predecessor rose from his bed. The movements of the market vendors came to a halt. The
old tomato seller woman began chanting a Buddhist prayer. And yet, the building wasn't even
constructed. But banners hung from the spires; they had no national flag. What good is drawing
totems on the walls, or getting tattooed? The king did nothing. He needed nothing. The king was
a kind of anorexic. He didn't even eat nuts. He wasn't eating fish. His mouth had completely
merged with the water, becoming two organs in one. It's not too late.
The old woman's words gradually transformed into language the vendors could understand.
Ears moved. Multiple ears began to walk grandly down the market street. The artisans'
discovery. The artisans thought. There was no blueprint now. Next to them was the King. The
King appeared to be dancing beside them. But he wasn't dancing at all; he wasn't even there.
He was in the royal palace, eating eggs. Not from his own chickens. The bird-man wasn't like
that. He wasn't even in the market. He was nowhere. He never showed his face. He was a
scarecrow. He could even be eaten. By a giant bird. But what honor would that be for him? He
was with the giant bird. He didn't say he was alive. He had already forgotten how to breathe. It
wasn't to erase his presence. It wasn't for some teleological purpose. He needed nothing.

Even with compensation, the shadow of the bird-man capturing this giant bird flickers in
Godard's films. There are no revisions. The editing should already be finished. He's with a
woman, not to avoid paying taxes, but to reduce editing costs. He's by the lake.
The bird-man says, "Everything appeared as material." This requires some thought. The market
is a world of faces. There, the tendrils of human footsteps, sounds, shoes, and ankles extend.
Yet, what people see are only faces. Small animals confirm this. They don't "know" it; it's
something they perceive within their respective skulls. CT scans are no longer cutting-edge
technology, but they existed even before history. Not from technology, but from such outsiders.
The bird-man didn't create it. It's contagious, and though its origin can't be stated, it should be
laughed off. Because its coming and going aren't the issue. It's a constant measure, no different
from the metric system. It hadn't been born yet. "Yet" means even now. Everything that doesn't
exist is born from what is not technology. That's a fact.
The bird-man spread both hands. He wasn't breathing air; he was measuring. What? Only he
knew. But the important thing is that he understood it. Can it be put into words? One can only
describe what is already complete. It rises simultaneously, different from measuring that
structure. Measuring. That's stroking each one's tendrils. Stroke. Stroke it. The tendrils say so,
and we don't obey. We stroke it when we want to stroke it too. There are no revisions. Time can
be edited endlessly, as long as one decides not to show it to others.
The bird-man ate the egg, before the King. But it was entirely different, not given as a gift
because it tasted good. It's always detached from "for something." From the bird-man's eyes,
the scenery was also quite detached. He was deep within the thicket.


Is it a bird? It has legs. Feathers were visible too. Feathers were hidden inside the stone. He
could discover minerals, and the location of water. It's no accident that the mountain dwellers

survived that way. These things aren't related. On the contrary, vastly different places are
converging all at once.
The bird-man has bird eyes. He can't eat birds. Bird eyes can't be dissected. Yet, he held
multiple eyeballs in his hand. Those were his measuring devices. With one in hand, he watched
from deep within the thicket for a bird that hadn't even appeared yet, inside the stone. The giant
bird descends there, from the shadow of a cloud, with the same gravity as its feathers. Gravity is
transforming. The bird-man digs into the ground. Using his hands is futile; such petty tricks won't
work. At the age of two, he cut off a finger with a blade. But that is his ability. When we turn
three, we start ignoring traffic lights. Look right, look left, then look right again. But why not look
left once more? The bird-man looks again and again. It's different from right or left. He must
surely realize that time is static. His own hands can't do this. Time cannot stop itself. The giant
bird, the giant bird's feathers, lure it. At that moment, the bird-man cohabits with the earthworms
at his toes. No amount of holes is enough. There was no path there. What he confirmed was the
King's figure, imagining an egg even though he wasn't hungry. He doesn't eat because he's
hungry. The act of eating is much further ahead, located to the right or left.
The bird-man then confirmed that a high ground stood before him. A fortress. It was invisible,
because beneath his gaze, a fortress made of stone sat like a river flowing through the dense
jungle. At lunchtime, the King, sipping tea, was thinking. He discarded a newly imported
cigarette. The messenger gazed for a while at the courtyard visible behind the King, where no
sound was heard. Eight pillars were visible. The wall in the back was said to be thousands of
years old. It had crumbled, revealing bones. To the messenger, they looked like bones.


The King silently sips his tea. "Where did this tea come from?" he's asked. "The nanny brought
it," the King says. "A squirrel brought it," the King continues. "It sprang forth from the top of a
tree." The King is silent again. Leaves are neatly arrayed before the messenger. "Where did it
come from?" "Where did it come from?" they ask in chorus. "Just observe," the bird-man says,
facing the giant bird. This isn't found in the market. He's not saying it's not a product; this isn't a
market at all.
We're so quick to desire this or that, overlooking so many trees. While in a car, we embrace
every landscape. Discarded aluminum cans are still battling ants. Leaves, changed in color,
worry about the rainfall. Rain's clothes, rain's curtain, rain's chair. It wouldn't be strange for it to
become a song; we constantly confront every moment. The bird-man is there, even in the
azalea park right before our eyes. It was visible beyond the wall. The inside of the bones was
hollow, boasting lightness. "Let me show you," the King continues, beginning to rotate on his
chair. It's a quiet morning. From the dining hall, cooks who have finished their work chat
amongst themselves, wiping their hands on their aprons. Their voices also reached the
bird-man's ears, even in the presence of the giant bird.
The castle isn't finished yet. It's still just a temple. To the messenger, the castle, hidden by
plants, looked like a place to dock. The King stands and wraps something like a watch around
his arm. It looks like a tattoo with strange patterns. But the hands are moving. "Soon," the King
says, and claps his hands. Clapping sounds begin to echo in the quiet place. The King's hand,
lagging in time, slowly adjusts to it. "Everything visible from here is material. Our source is the
scenery." The King then vanishes behind a curtain. The egg dish is served afterwards; flowers

adorn the hot yellow omelet. Eighty-five stairs. All dimensions taken from people's faces.
Walking, climbing. A river in the handrail. The gradual realization that there is no time. The
town's air. Streetlights. Bricks.



These aren't things we acquire; they're parts of us. Those tentacles. Bricolage needs
redefinition. It's never about making do with what's available. Before claiming there's no such
thing as "uncivilized," we must doubt our own perception. Making do, improvising, creating with
what's in the fridge—that's completely different from organizing our thoughts.


What the King created—things that were just lying around, anonymous things, vernacular
things—all of these concepts need redefinition. In Zero, a record of the words of the Shozo tribe
chief, who lives along a river near Tokyo, there's one testimony: "I didn't pick it up. I wasn't
discarded. It's nothing. It was me, and what's visible isn't all of me. Can you see the longhorn
beetle's antennae?" The Shozo tribe chief collected even hair, which we consider trash and
discard. But that's absolutely not "making do." There is no wild thought, and no mere thought.
What we must now confront is a reunion with that filth: semen, hair, boogers, discharge like oil
paint brushstrokes on underwear. These are things severed from us, a riverside settlement. But
make no mistake, they are not us. Even if you pick them up and take them to the nearest
garbage collection point, you can't exchange them for money. Yet, the Shozo tribe uses them as
materials for their dwellings. That's no accident.
If you call it coincidence, then coincidence is an organ. Coincidence is suddenly there, like an
invisible tentacle, like the antennae of a longhorn beetle. It sways even when there's no wind.
There's an action distinct from the action-reaction movement.


The fuel rod that ignites when we express our urge to urinate, the outburst of emotion, the
unbelievable, the outrageous, the vulgar words whispered on the roadside right now, the
sweltering night spent fumbling with underwear—it's the same when building a colossal
structure, a temple, requiring a five-meter column. The bodies of the Shozo tribe have countless
pores, from which antennae emerge through tubes separate from the waste product of hair. A
three-year-old crosses a busy street without looking at traffic lights. Kindergartens are
unnecessary. Even parental protection. The antennae are said to be fifty centimeters long, but
precision doesn't matter. It's a story to be laughed off.


Whether it's five millimeters or when one finds nearly five meters of discarded material, a
landscape arrives, a river appears, the riverside algae rustles, and some fool goes outside. Only
a fool would do such a thing. What resulted was civilization, long before Egypt, a plant
civilization born from trees, from mosses, from foolish anomalies, and the landscape of animals
drawn to it emerged. There are no empires. "Everything appeared as material," the King said.
It's not even in the records. How could it be? It wasn't history; it was a vividly visible place.
There's no bricolage, no Sunday carpenters, no Sunday painters. There are only artisans,

carpenters, or painters. The sweat Rousseau shed in the dead of winter nights reflected not just
its composition, but even the transience of the sun that illuminated it. Is there no painter to
depict that? The King always conveyed this. Is there no painter to depict that? Our era is also
there. We are always seeking painters, and carpenters exist as artisans, not with licenses or as
subcontractors. They were building the castle walls, in front of all materials.



The King declared, "Behold this abundance! Without going to the market, without relying on
rainbows. Don't set stones upright. Let stones lie as stones, like lions. Do peacocks fly? They
will, between us, in the middle. So, just look at it. From this observatory. See everything, not just
stars. That is the role of this observatory, and that is how I lived." As the King spoke, he
immediately severed both his hands, and his ankles, and his entire torso exploded into dust.


Why do we call a locksmith just because a doorknob is broken? Why wake the residents
dwelling in the realm beneath the floorboards? What we don't know, we don't need to know. Do
we perceive what's before us as wind? No, we shouldn't perceive it, or connect with it, or even
shift our thinking anew. All of it leads to the market. Whether it's capitalism or communism,
there's no difference. Burn the market. Yet, the market survives somewhere. In a place without a
roof. In a kindred nest. The faces gathered there will each pick up fallen heads, one by one.
That is the scenery, and it is all our dwelling. Our tools. Our clothing. He isn't telling us to use it.
We should simply be crushed by its abundance. That abundance brings nothing. We will stop
working. Instead, we'll sweat profusely in the dead of winter. It's not bricolage; it's closer to fried
rice made with whatever ingredients are on hand. In other words, it's the most delicious. More
delicious than anyone else's. It's not love. It's not delicious just because a captivated woman
made it for a man. It's simply delicious, because residing in our hands is that King's cook. Before
anything could be done. Before structures were born. The King was there. Now, the King is
gone. There are no empires. Just as by building a wall, one can know there are no bones. No
one ever visited. Everything is not a part of oneself; everything is half-oneself. Anti-nature is
half-oneself. All one can do with that is exclaim in admiration.


It's easy to dismiss this as lacking a plan. Anyone can do it. But is that really true? Can it truly
be condemned? No, can it even be spoken? I can easily say that a "transition" is happening to
me right now. But can anyone truly do that? I don't think so. We don't think so either. Because
the moment the castle appeared, crumbling, and the animals living around it spun to face me, I
was just material, simply becoming fried rice. But it's delicious. Just delicious. Not I am
delicious. There's no romance. There are only secretions.


Yet, just because it's a mechanical motion, how could Picabia become amphetamine? "He is, in
other words, human. He is a stimulant," as Duchamp replied to an interviewer in his later years,
so too will I say: "This is a takeover. It's collective eavesdropping. A combat group is involved.
Find them now! Now!"



It's said that a person in the Asuka period could instantly discern not only the words of
twenty-three people but also the dashed lines, sources, and misprints of those words. But this is
merely an act. There's no stage. Oh, lighting person! Why do we immediately utter "san," the
onomatopoeia for an indescribable state where the sun falls, from which everything must begin?
It's different from consonants or vowels. In other words, all linguistics is not a discipline from the
start; there are no scholars of it. Everything is just child's play, akin to cat's cradle. It's just
saying, "That's the Eiffel Tower, that's Tokyo Tower, that's a bridge," but at the same time, it's too
childish to condemn. Becoming a child.


This, too, is an act, but it's crucial to remember that it's by no means a discipline. The
performance continued. I'm not saying time passed. Time has been stopped for ages. In a
theater, the stage, all sorts of rehearsals take place. Can we say that time is moving there?
Repetition, failures, the director's issues, the director's personality, the amount of drugs they're
consuming—all these variables are present to induce temporal fluctuations. Talk shows are the
same. Interviews by interviewers are also the same. How long will they keep talking? No one
can hear.


Being in a place where no one can condemn you. Not leaving that place. Not letting go. Barbed
wire fences mean nothing. Bubka always holds a pole. Every kind of pole. Referring to Journey
to the West makes it easy. Our conversation never stops. I am performing such an act. But this
is all improvisation. What Ornette Coleman expresses in his album Dancing in Your Head is not
music. It is the presence, the aura, of a white-faced clown. Such a presence is always behind
us. In America, where one can point to every single moss living on the surface from a single
complete individual, such phenomena sometimes occur indiscriminately across entire states, not
just within one person. The clown's unchanging face is achieved by utterly exhausting all effort,
like a swan in a pond. Even if the sound of a guitar is heard, not a single string comes out of the
speaker. Of course, there's no market here either.


We are watching. The director, facing actors who continued to read a script he hadn't even
written, revealed his anger, but it wasn't during rehearsal now. The audience is engrossed. In
the first place, time had completely stopped. Regardless of the printed start time, at the moment
a play is performed, all time stops. This is the true purpose of theater.


This is why, as children, in the vast hall before a performance, we'd inexplicably sit on chairs,
completely ignoring the nonexistent parents urging us to drink champagne, and instead hear the
rustle of ferns on the stage curtain or the cry of pteranodons. The audience's captivation is the
director's triumph. That is, of course, outside the world where time has stopped.



However, once the performance begins, the director himself transforms into an audience
member, feeling that ancient presence of pteranodons. So, far from taking a step, he bends at
the waist and responds with a silent wink to the unspoken winks of the approaching, formally
dressed intellectuals. This isn't language. It's akin to Tamori's impersonations, fundamentally
questioning the very existence of the director.


Tamori is always suspicious. Suspicious of the very existence of "Chinese people." Mahjong
exists. The two-sided wait exists. He waits on that street corner. Yet, he clearly casts doubt on
the categorization of "Chinese people," on that boundary, along with the Italian soccer
commentators almost crazed by cocaine, glimpsing their beastly nature.


Far from stopping, the performers destroy all the stage sets, reaching a critical point. At that
moment, language belongs to the performers, and we, the audience, can neither explore
phonemes nor dismiss it as music. We are forced into that rupture, falling into a black hole. The
lighting designer, exasperated, went home. So did the sound engineer. The director, unable to
detach himself from his triumph, was bitten off at the head by a dinosaur. He is no longer a
performer. I can no longer even distinguish if I am Deleuze. I am already dead. I, too, am an
Allosaurus. A ferocious beast with hollow bones.


What Artaud sought to manifest at the Alfred Jarry Theatre was precisely this kind of scene.

We must focus on that single note, "Alfred Jarry 4," which Artaud supposedly left while
consuming peyote, discovered in Uruguay. He was designing a stage set. Every writer has such
a blueprint, yet they are neither architects nor do they have a brand for the book that will
eventually be created. We must be cautious about calling those who write "writers." With such a
focus, one cannot even build a theater, and in the first place, those who write books are not
writers.


There's a traversing line, not even a cross-section. So to speak, it's a cognitive map—a
one-to-one drawing. It's impossible to even discern what kind of apparatus it is anymore. We
cannot trust anyone who claims that "God is in the details." God doesn't dwell anywhere to
begin with, and if he did, he should choose something better. Moreover, it's the details that truly
matter. The details are the theater, and that's where the audience truly resides.


Details are the meeting of aluminum and rubber frames, they are the hem. Structures create
four corners; they are also intersections. They attempt to bring about the intersection of people,
of matter, of atmosphere, of the cosmos. However, nothing is born from intersection. It's merely
the collision of one-way paths, the passage of people with a purpose.



Instead, Artaud eliminated all corners. Furthermore, he feared density and sealing. Whether
wind entered or it melted, it was nothing compared to his terror. In every detail, the materials
used are never the same. Construction always prioritizes efficiency, even the pyramids. But
originally, temples weren't built that way. The same goes for theaters.


Of course, temples and theaters are different. No one sheds tears over the tragedy they
witnessed at the Colosseum. That's a fiction, and fiction and scaffolding are clearly different
things. It's not about pretense, but about not pretending. And without pretending, it splits, is
destroyed, and collapses.

Water drips incessantly. If that's not enough, it's guerrilla warfare. Call someone. Don't call it a
holy war; that's irrelevant. There's nothing to do but laugh it off. It's just dynamite, nothing more.
Not gunpowder, but a collision of matter. In other words, instead of an intersection, we're trying
to create a collision. Artaud was like that too.
But above all, as the theater's name suggests, Jarry, Alfred Jarry himself, is the pioneer. He was
a collision. A speed demon, yet he would be haggard in the morning shade. There was always a
roof over his yard, and he lay beneath it. Yukio Mishima's muscles, like Jarry's photos as a
sportsman, were simply a crossing. In other words, it wasn't even acting. Instigate a collision.
Jarry, who became collision itself, went to the gun shop to smoke. To describe him, a double is
needed. He was a double. Whose? That would be the actuary Blanqui. A snob at Henri
Poincaré's university, he didn't listen to lectures on physics. He was clearly a bomb-maker. He
was trying to build a bomb. This is evident from several testimonies.
First, Picasso said, "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon was a perfect window. I could only paint it blue
and laugh at the Rose Period. In a place without even a toilet. On that Bateau-Lavoir. All of it
was because of opium, and that was Blanqui." Blanqui is a criminal who does nothing. He's a
bomb-maker who doesn't detonate, and he was dynamite itself. Amphetamines would be better.
"Who will it bother?" It's better to stop that foolish argument. It's a fuse to an explosion, and
Blanqui, after all, is an insurance agent, and an actuary at that. Numbers appeared to him as a
single painting. It didn't require brushstrokes or expensive oil paints. No brush needed! Blanqui
couldn't care less about four dimensions; swinging a bat in a batting cage, he created the
two-dimensional lives of salarymen venting their daily frustrations.

With total disregard for any queen, they swing their bats today. Sad, isn't it? The machine that
became the prototype for those batting cages was designed by Abbott, author of Flatland.
Blanqui was an avid reader of Abbott's work and, at the same time, the de facto leader of the
secret society Abbott founded, the Softball Club.


Now, it's displayed in a museum. Why should we even go there? There are other things to see.
The new theater, "Jarry 4," remains unfinished due to Artaud's forced hospitalization, but batting
cages are everywhere. Each one of them is a salon of the Softball Club. Conversations are still
ongoing. You absolutely must not miss them. What appears there is not an opium den. The

windows remain painted ultramarine, like a bathroom air freshener. If you think it smells, just
consider that the moment the fragrant olive blooms, every tree (not just fragrant olive, of course)
becomes a toilet. Try adding the image of ladies squatting to pee, feeling as if you're a toilet
yourself. Artaud left that written on the theater's signboard. Is that vulgar? No, it's technique. It's
a hint. It's also a secret art to curb monotony.


Artaud, the sportsman lying in bed, also left notes on the very first play he would stage. Blanqui
is that person, and he continues to paint even now, recording our medical histories on a
checklist. Amphetamine isn't found only in stimulants; of course, it's also in the human body, and
if you want to ingest it legally, just ask a plant. It exists in every country. That too is a secret
society, and warriors are born that way. They don't arise from apologies, and even if caught,
they can articulate what's wrong. In fact, Blanqui attended trials and even conducted wiretaps.
He then serialized these events as even stranger tales in a vulgar magazine.


This was a four-dimension different from Abbott's. Mathematical, physical, and scientific
four-dimensions were clearly wrong. They were inaccurate. Of course, that inaccuracy is crucial
for humans; misunderstanding is precisely how loopholes are discovered.



This concept has now enveloped everything, becoming a singular truth. However, its veracity is
irrelevant. There's no accuracy in the batting cage, and the machine itself still has obscure
parts. While it's often attributed to mere "play" in the iron lever or distortion, Blanqui vehemently
disagrees. He devised something called the Intuition Equation, published, of course, in an erotic
magazine. Most people simply regarded it as a crossword puzzle. Was that his intention?


Do not cross, collide. The bomb-maker continues to build bombs, bombs that will never
detonate. Not even duds. What is he waiting for? "Jarry 4" depicts the trajectory, like a series of
photographs, of our becoming beasts, or what precedes it.


The patient said he couldn't make small talk. He couldn't belong anywhere. He had no interest in
the weather, or yesterday's news, even catastrophic events involving massacres and shootings.
Natural disasters didn't change anything for him. A new concrete building might withstand a
magnitude 7 earthquake, and dying in it was perfectly acceptable, as it was us who needed to
go extinct. Of course, he had time. That's why he could listen to or see the news. Yet, he had no
reaction whatsoever. It wasn't a lack of memory. He tacitly acknowledged the movements of the
arrested criminal. "He was there." The mere fact of his existence resolved the problem for him.
He wouldn't shed blood to find a solution. The patient who couldn't make small talk still went
outside because he wanted to breathe. He no longer cared about being judged. He had more
pressing concerns.



The patient couldn't make small talk, not even with cousins or second cousins, not in those
settings. Adults would talk about recent events or work, but he simply didn't need to join in.
That's all there was to it. You shouldn't judge it as loneliness, and isolation is out of the question.
The patient simply moved on to the next thing, searching for something to touch, a tool,
something to break, a body to dissect that hadn't yet decomposed. Of course, that's how we
were as children. Furthermore, there was an unusual repetition. They weren't doing the same
thing. Each time, they were tumbling head over heels, not factoring in any corrections from
previous attempts. Avoid small talk, yet don't be silent. Do something entirely different, the next
thing, with abnormal repetition.
People would brush off the patient. Laugh it off. Don't go to the hospital. Avoid the patient. By
repeating, it becomes another rule. People who forget the rules converse with limited sounds.
But that's not conversation, nor even repetition; it's merely imitation. Caillois reincorporated
"imitation," which Huizinga supposedly removed, as one of the elements of play. So, they're
playing. Are we playing? Is the patient playing? What's playful about tumbling head over heels?
It's a duty. It's a chemist's job, a powder magazine.
Becoming a child isn't play. It's not regressing to infancy. If you're going to regress, you might as
well go back to prehistory. Even going back to the Stone Age is just a cheap trick proven by time
machines. Critics who misinterpret Spielberg say it's "nothing happening." But Back to the
Future isn't about human desperate acts; it's just bursting wires, flashes of light, and sound
pressure. You should watch the high-speed movements in fast-forward; there's no time for
human dialogue, silence, swallowing saliva, or sweaty palms.

That's precisely why small talk begins. Deviate completely from that code. We are the rebel
army. We have no creed, no holy war. Rather, it's closer to a massage. Is life worth living? At the
Talfon psychiatric hospital, this question is met with a scoff. What follows is the suppression of
confusion, disappearance, and interviews.
Marionne, originally a patient, certainly became a worker thanks to the devoted doctors. She
earned a salary and, for the first time, ate out. She even fell in love. She was given medicine,
the ingredients of which she wasn't fully aware of, but with a formal prescription, she was
"cured." Her medical records document the process, and upon discharge, she offered her own
words of gratitude. She even managed to rent an apartment.
However, she says: "A gray, transparent curtain. Even without wind, insects creep in, and
laughter spills from the water pipes. I can't drink water. Water. Frozen pizza was my only solace.
All matter was my place; I was lost there. The doctors told me to live, and they adjusted the light
intensity. Then I stopped writing. I had been writing in the hospital room. It was a complete place
where, instead of cultivating desire, that bug inside me that was least myself, I could gather
around the same sap. Night gatherings. Dancing in empty cans. That feast, which lasted until
dawn, was a break from my pension book, an unstoppable impulse. My split self loved to dance.
At night, when everyone was asleep, inside the curtain, how could I not dance? I never lacked a
dance partner."



When I turned the tap, little people—some with long necks, some covered in feathers, some
with wings flying low over the bed—all responded willingly to my request, my invitation, even
without outlines or presentations. They danced endlessly, and I even built a TV station.
Everyone came to my company. My job was to create schedules, and I started haunting
dumpsters for the morning news. All of this happened inside the hospital. But it wasn't a
hospital; it was clearly a town, and I lived in a suburb about thirty minutes by car from the
capital. The rent was cheap, just right for renting an apartment where my tap friends could all
live, and they quickly blossomed with talent. They became stars, and I became their manager. It
was busy, but it became a part of my life."
Marionne later committed suicide in her apartment. We have to ask: Is there anything here
worth living for? Did Marionne's town vanish then? If you turn on the TV, if you dig through the
channels, is Marionne no longer there? Perhaps we were the demons for Marionne. It was her
break from her village, a young girl who became a prostitute to feed her family back home.
Though she had no pet dog, we know she created countless animals from cardboard.
Her home was a room in a fourteen-story mixed-use building, but when you opened the door, it
was a complete jungle. Night after night, she navigated the town, using only a shovel to uproot
plants from public parks and bring them home. Too lazy to buy pots, she laid down a waterproof
sheet on the floor and spread fifty centimeters of leaf mold across the entire room. There, she
planted one thing after another. She went to work diligently every day except weekends, and
reportedly had almost no problems even while on the job. She was in sales, and her
performance wasn't bad; no one, apart from the president and HR, even knew she had been
hospitalized in a psychiatric institution for fifteen years. However, her confusion had vanished.
The demolition workers even said there was a tiger in her room. She apparently created all sorts
of things from discarded cardboard. Their intricacy was astounding, and a retrospective
exhibition was later held, but she was no longer there.

The disappearance of confusion can, it seems, lead a person toward death. So, what then is to
be done? Reflecting on this, Talfon Psychiatric Hospital deemed the act of "socially adapting"
patients to be the work of the devil. They wrote it into their articles of incorporation. And they
attached a declaration from each individual: "We possess virtually no medical knowledge." They
shut down the hospital and formed a circus troupe instead—a sideshow.


When there was a festival, and buildings crumbled, leaving an empty lot, they would begin their
sideshow there: weddings, funerals, or taverns, cabarets. They set up shop in all kinds of places
where many people gathered, or where people wouldn't normally go. "We didn't even need fixed
dwellings," said former Dr. Kumpe, Marionne's primary physician. Finding a place seemed
difficult. However, that was only because of the distinction between doctor and patient; to solve
it, they first eradicated those labels. That is, they declared that there were no doctors and no
patients. By escaping the confined space of the hospital, they gained the stage of the real world.
They decided to perform. Performance in the real world transformed into the name "life." The
group of people formerly called "patients" were now called "doctors," and those who had held
medical licenses were called "patients."



A dwelling was found immediately. First, these "doctors" asserted, "Marionne is not dead." All
the "patients" initially tilted their heads in confusion, but they still followed the doctors' words,
and now, Marionne is still alive. Marionne didn't resurrect; she simply lived. She said she was a
nose. She wasn't a divided body part but simply a mass of nose. Every night, she ventured into
town, just a nose, drifting aimlessly in the darkness. She floated in mid-air, but no one found it
strange. The "doctors" followed her. All medical records were incinerated. "Purple, viridian,
turquoise," she specified directions by color.

Her sense of direction was flawlessly accurate. The "doctors" meticulously listened to each of
her pronouncements, using oil paints to layer a new town onto the existing maps on paper. This
layering itself became a geological stratum, with several fossils even being discovered.
Marionne's nose never missed a single turn and, upon finding the smallest gap, immediately
drove a stake. Earthwork was performed by Jarmie, the "doctor," and the act of driving the stake
was the operation itself. There, they repeatedly saw demons. Humans, cursed by these
encounters, drifted away. The "doctors," however, interpreted these phenomena purely from a
scientific perspective.


Scaffolding was erected, resembling a pill capsule for powder, and it became the outer wall of
the hospital itself. Dozens of inpatients also came to reside within it. They uttered delusions
such as, "I can see the sky. It rained. Conflicts are happening in distant countries. People died.
More died. A woman in heavy makeup, dressed almost naked, stepping out of a car like a giant,
frequent sibling, walking on a blood-soaked carpet." The "patients" not only heard the voices of
distant events but also saw their forms, and experienced these nightmares repeatedly.


Marionne's nose indicated the presence of medicinal herbs in every town, and during the day,
she primarily focused on preparing these herbs in parks abundant with plants or in groves along
rivers. Consultations were mainly through anamnesis, primarily through a unique form of
anamnesis involving transformation using medicinal herbs. The "patients" had experienced
transference; occasionally, they would claim to possess the medical licenses they had
supposedly discarded, and, holding medical records, would spew delusions at the "doctors" like,
"That's a disease, it's confusion, it's dissociation, it's a depressive state." The "doctors" did not
immediately dismiss these as hallucinations or auditory delusions; instead, they listened
carefully. And then, they would first embrace. The "doctors" neither prescribed medicine nor
conveyed a diagnosis or defined the illness to the "patients." The "doctors" touched the
"patients" in the closest place, not in the delicate parts the "patients" felt sensitive about. The
"doctors" possessed the ability to identify these places. They would place their hands there. And
gradually, they would draw closer, making eye contact as they embraced. The "patient" was not
seeking treatment.

The "doctor" begins by communicating that delusion itself is the self, and that delusion is more
worthwhile than mere life. This is conveyed through touch, through the skin. Instead of a

prescription, the "doctor" hands over a string of handwritten words. It sometimes looks like a
random number table: "connection, powder, one of the tangled vines, ladder, up, insect wing's,
one or two rotations, ruler, that, especially, a created, thing as, soft ruler, bendable without
breaking, sensation. emotion, Rocinante, roadside, feces, dry, brick, wall, sign, village name,
dead, door, relative, sun, corn, between, heaven, between, water, between, well, sensation, two
tablets." And finally, it invariably describes the "patient" as seen by the "doctor"—a landscape
description, as they call it. Sometimes, they even draw from life.


As I see you, your perception in the back of your eyes and the musical score in your ears are
very stable. That means you're suited for a profession where you apply effects to what people
see, or feel musical tones from the buzzing of insect wings. As for tools, a wooden stick, and
perhaps solidifying the shavings after sanding it two thousand times to create a horse and foal,
might be good. But first and foremost, you must not forget the Mushroom Kingdom. Since you're
its prince, you should fly three times over the asphalt with dignity.


At this, the "patient" feels emotion welling up. It was as if an old father had arrived in the inner
plaza that had until then been almost unknown to others, as if oil permeated their own skeletal
remains while still inhabiting a desolate shack where no water flowed. It was different from joy.
Some, excited, lunged at the "doctor" or demanded to be hugged tighter, but the "doctor"
invariably said, "Lie down, Heart," placed their left hand on the patient's heart, and smiled with a
comforting gesture, then worried about and apologized for the next "patient's" waiting time.
"There's no delusion at all. None. It's not strange, nor is it what you desire. It's not nothing, you
see. Of course, it's startling. But it's a flash of light happening right there. A bomb. You made a
bomb."


You've made a bomb, and your fear of it comes only from seeing the external law. Yet, I want to
tell you, through touch and skin, that delusion itself is the self, and it's more worthy of living than
mere life. Instead of a traditional prescription, what I, the "doctor," hand you is a string of
handwritten words. It might look like a random number table:


Connect, powder, one of the tangled vines, ladder, up, insect wing's, one or two rotations, ruler,
that, especially, a created, thing as, soft ruler, bendable without breaking, sensation. Emotion,
Rocinante, roadside, feces, dry, brick, wall, sign, village name, dead, door, relative, sun, corn,
between, heaven, between, water, between, well, sensation, two tablets.


Finally, it always includes a description of you, the "patient," as seen by me, the "doctor." We call
it landscape description, and sometimes, we even draw it. "From my perspective, the sensation
deep within your eyes and the musical score in your ears are very stable. This means you're
suited for a profession where you apply effects to what people see, or feel musical tones from

the buzzing of insect wings. As for tools, a wooden stick, and perhaps solidifying the shavings
after sanding it two thousand times to create a horse and foal, might be good. But first and
foremost, you must not forget the Mushroom Kingdom. Since you're its prince, you should fly
three times over the asphalt with dignity.


At this, emotions well up within you, the "patient." It's as if an old father has arrived in the inner
courtyard you'd barely revealed to others. You feel oil permeating your own skeletal remains,
still within a dilapidated shack in a wasteland where no water flows. It's different from joy. Some,
excited, might leap at the "doctor" or demand a stronger embrace, but I, the "doctor," invariably
say, "Lie down, Heart," place my left hand on your heart, and smile with a comforting gesture,
then worry about and apologize for the next "patient's" waiting time.


There's no delusion at all. None. It's not strange, nor is it what you desire. It's not nothing, you
see. Of course, it's startling. But it's a flash of light happening right there. A bomb. You've made
a bomb. You're making a bomb, and your fear of it comes only from seeing the external law, but
look deeper from there.





Look at the aim of the gun. The air is clean there, isn't it? It's completely different. Spread your
arms. Exhale deeply until you die. Photosynthesis is your job.


Manidros, a Helot slave, was from the Ethnos. The Ethnos, composed solely of non-Greeks,
was a group entirely different from city-states like the Polis. Moreover, they were an
indeterminate people, wanderers, yet a people who did not move. Manidros had risen to
prominence as the chief slave of Barsion, an Athenian banker, largely due to his unusual
interest in being killed. When he first met Barsion, Manidros was not yet a Helot and didn't even
understand the meaning of "slave." He was something that couldn't hear, couldn't calculate; he
was something that couldn't feel pain, yet had felt pain.


When Barsion asked him, "What can you do as a slave?" Manidros simply danced on the spot,
then, without a sound, severed the middle finger of his right hand with a knife he held. "I will
control people. I will control only their insides. I will have sex with plants. I will become water in
the aqueduct and rage within you all. Just become water. Then I can control your world. If your
body doesn't fit, just cut it off. That's fine. Are there any buyers? I'm hungry. I need money. So,
are there any buyers? Where is he? I will be bought. I'll even give myself away." As he spoke,
he peeled and ate the severed middle finger without even roasting it.



Manidros's father was a pirate, throwing his own children into the sea one by one as bait.
Manidros simply lay on the ground. Around him, similar slaves were in the midst of an auction to
be purchased as Helots. Barsion took a liking to Manidros and paid sixty thousand Herbur in
cash.


Manidros, however, had no broker. He was merely a vagrant, just rolling around the market
without any intermediary. Voices from those nearby exclaimed, "If you're asleep, you can't see!"
but he paid them no mind. "Are you the one who wants to dominate?" Manidros snatched the
gold from Barsion's hand and stuffed the thick wad of bills into a purse sewn from his own skin,
located in his thigh.


As the fifteenth slave of the wealthy Barsion, Manidros stepped into the five-story Barsion
mansion in central Athens. He was reportedly drooling. And laughing. It was no wonder the
other slaves were terrified. He was placed in a Helot room, a vast underground space enclosed
by iron bars. The next day, Barsion roared when he saw five slaves with their heads ripped off.
Barsion, however, did not get angry. He simply watched Manidros gnawing on the corpses in
silence. Of course, Manidros was immediately removed from the Helot room, and had no
restrictions placed on him other than being made to wear iron shoes with locks.


Manidros continued to draw organs and popping eyeballs with blood on the white walls
throughout the mansion. The servants, far from being able to endure Barsion's eccentricity, felt
their lives were in danger. Yet, what Manidros truly desired was to be killed. "In the Polis, if you
commit a crime, you can die," Manidros said. But this was within the mansion, and all laws
rested with Barsion. Death was not possible under Barsion. Manidros submitted a petition to
Barsion to die. Barsion, intrigued by Manidros's objective, suggested that it might be possible if
he were demoted from a private slave to a public slave, a much harsher position.


That very day, Manidros left the Barsion mansion. He walked through the town. He paid
servants to press the Helot brand onto his back and cheek, then walked the streets with vacant
eyes. Here too, he was drooling. Eventually, he became known as the "Drooling King." But even
if he caused a commotion on the bridge, or occasionally, when the mood struck him, killed a few
children playing nearby, Manidros could not be captured.


The reason Manidros couldn't be captured was simple: anyone who tried to capture him ended
up dead. Barsion, having funded most of the paving, aqueducts, public facilities, and religious
institutions in Athens' central Rossa district, held such sway that King Eupelius III had little say.
However, during a lunch meeting one day, held in front of Barsion's mansion fountain, Barsion
addressed the issue.



"He just wants to die, so why not kill him?" Barsion began. "I've already had five of my slaves
killed by him, and the eight slaves who witnessed it went mad and all committed suicide. Of
course, I'm a victim too. But Manidros can be in any state. He drools. Whether it's pain or
murderous intent, even if you condemn him, it only sounds like cheering. Despite being a victim,
I somehow empathize with his joy. This world should just perish. Very well then. Let's create a
place for killing. Let's open a 'Killing House.' Barsion Bank will fund everything. The condition is
that it must be in the middle of town. It will serve as an education for the youth, and we can
silence the citizens' customs with the act of killing. Five hundred Herbur per session. Let's even
put up posters on the walls advertising that you can get killed at a rock-bottom price."


Eupelius III returned, satisfied. The next day, as Barsion ordered, a group of laborers piled
bricks to build a crude shed: a shop where one could kill. From the very first day, a line of
people, unable to suppress their desires, formed. It stretched from the shed all the way to
Barsion's mansion, several hundred meters away. People would choose one of the various
weapons and torture devices passed down in the Barsion family, and then, alone, confront
Manidros. To assure the customers, Manidros was given nothing. However, at this moment,
Manidros burst into tears of sheer ecstasy. The feeling of being about to be killed greatly excited
him. One could even say it had a massage-like effect. In the end, on the first day alone,
Manidros lost his right hand and both legs, and his tongue was cut in half.



On the second day and beyond, his eyes were sold in the market, and his nose was sliced off.
One side of the shed was made entirely of glass, attracting crowds who peered at Manidros with
nothing but curiosity. Slaves, they believed, were meant to be used for training in killing. Blood
splattered and clung to the glass, and spectators, pressing their faces into the gaps, watched
him tormented and dismembered, relentlessly, every day, every second. Some even became
aroused, retreating to straw huts nearby for self-gratification, and sometimes men engaged in
sexual acts with each other. Furthermore, prostitution began, and florists thrived.


Manidros was in a state of near death. Yet, he continued to drool, and his eyes never filled with
tears. He, too, was aroused, and mingled with blood, even his semen splattered. Barsion,
observing the throng, erected a sturdy structure for storing gold and silver, much like a modern
bank, right next to the dying Manidros. Barsion was a merciless man, but Manidros saw him
entirely differently—as a benefactor. On the inner wall of the shed, with his blood-stained hand,
Manidros left a tribute to Barsion: "Barsion, Barsion, eternal emotion, rain of joy, Barsion,
Barsion, people's desire, scales, constellations, I am the severed arm, the sold eye, the blood
continually seeping into the ground."


A priest once came and offered words of pity to Manidros. Manidros, drowsy, didn't hear a word.
"I don't really understand, but good work," Manidros said, still without a hint of coldness. Seeing

this, the crowd beat the priest to death. While Manidros was alive, murders and robberies
proliferated within about fifty meters of him. Some called for a halt, citing moral decay, but
Eupelius III ordered it to continue. Barsion further expanded his bank.


The people's heightened emotions didn't last long; their focus gradually blurred, and some even
began to smash their heads against the shed walls. While waiting in line, some would hang
themselves from nearby trees or blow themselves up and die.

Yet, the market bustled from early morning, and the number of children grew. A sewage system
became necessary. This is how infrastructure develops. It's due to a body that cannot be
divided, no matter how much you cut from it. Before sexual desire, there are the severed parts.
Blood is merely a pretense. Manidros is still not dead. Though the words written in blood have
long vanished, without even a scream, Manidros, at least his face, still breathed at night. He has
a temptation: the temptation of a massage. There is no love or hate here. There is no
relationship between Manidros, who wishes to be killed, and the citizens, who wish to kill. Even
if they met on a street corner, there would be no duel, no sexual indulgence. They are simply
citizen and slave, discriminated against within a stabilizer.


Discrimination within a stabilizer holds no terror. Rather, it leads to the strengthening of national
bonds and various functions. The shed, Manidros's petition, and Barsion's capital are all a
massage. Contact without sexual love. It's also different from a monetary bond. It's something
else. This is a gratuitous massage, and through it, he finds peace. The customers, too, find the
same. By standing in line, citizens become customers, and by seeing blood, by cutting off
fingers, they reunite with their own muscles. When a part is severed, they encounter their own
body from a distant perspective. It is not fear. Nor is it relief. They are not relieved that they were
not in that role; instead, they discover new, latent movements within their own bodies, like
nocturnal vision. Like an owl, staring intently, yet seeing nothing. No interest. Not even the
indifference of having no interest. No exasperation, no resignation, no pity. Because they are not
looking. And yet, they are staring. Burroughs said, "11 + 1 sees the thirteenth century.”



A phone call. It's a wrong number. We get wrong numbers constantly. The phone number isn't
ours; it's not even a name. There's no presence there, but if we answer, a pathway opens. We
sometimes hear voices. They aren't human voices. It's a call from someone dying. There are
also calls from the dead. We don't have to answer those if we're short on time. But the truth is,
we're bored. We have too much time on our hands. Like owls, we see nothing. And it's not like
we're in the 23rd century. Our bodies are confined here.
But is that true? We should be suspicious. The body is everywhere. Just as Carter was
everywhere, and Captain Ahab mistook the ocean spray for his own shadow. Whether on a
ship, in a plane, on airplane mode, or even powered off, calls still come through. No one has
ever answered a call that wasn't a wrong number. They are all wrong numbers. Yet, there's a
voice. That's what's important. The phone isn't even a tool; it's just a hole. If you live in a hole,

that's one thing, but as long as you want to see the forest or drink river water, it all becomes a
wrong number.
I received a call too. It was from Guattari. He writes down the delusions in his head in a
notebook every day. I've never seen it. He just says he does. I judge solely by the words he
speaks. It's not that I have no choice but to judge; that is the only judgment. He doesn't have a
pen. I've never lived with him. But he calls and speaks to me:
"You are every piece of literature. You read literature. Reading is what you are. Your words are
stray dogs from somewhere. Dogs can only bark. I'm hungry. Yet your words are still crawling
around out there."





"I can't recall what I've written myself. It's utterly impossible, like trying to catch a bird running at
high speed, even if it's a flightless bird. I've set a trap. A spring-loaded trap. I've set them all
over the room. Not just setting them, but inserting electrodes into each one, trying to understand
the trap's mental state. It's observation. I don't want to know. This is a job. So this phone call is,
of course, a trap. But I didn't set it. It was made by the one hanging from the branch. It's not a
monster; there's no such thing here. You are not only literature, but a bird that stopped flying
from one text to the next. A flightless bird has claws. Sometimes, it forgets its feathers. I read
my forgotten sentences and try to write again. But it's fine as it is. That's fine."


Guattari disrupted my bookshelf, from the other end of the phone. No hand extended. No hands
are needed. What's needed is where things are, a matter of longitude and latitude, and there's
no map. A plane must always exist, but who said it couldn't be bent or folded? Guattari wouldn't
do that. Guattari's words were a kind of sexual initiation. Guattari's laboratory is a magician's
experimental ground. There are no materials here. Originally, he had nothing to create. All he
has is nonsense and direction. He has direction. He becomes direction. We should follow that.


The room was divided into many sections. None of the books I possess are bound. I simply cut
out any interesting sections with scissors and then divide them. I shred them. Cut-up is nothing
but a trick of perspective. Brion Gysin, while complaining that Burroughs' cut-ups were "pictures,
not to be called works," said, "When I am closed, when I am depressed. The water in the river
comes straight towards me, and though I am inside, I almost opened the door from the outside.
But everything is late, late! Speed! Why is every movement always delayed? It's not even
morning yet."




With his eyes closed, Gysin gulped down the liquid: Evian Alaxum Marif. From the speaker in
Guattari's room, various human voices recited. All were read by patients. "I was heading
towards the volcano. By car. I thought I'd get into an accident. A rumble. Yet, I decided to go

because there was a library there, and I was overdue." They all sounded like this. Not even a
diary. Whose diary was it? There were picture diaries too.


Guattari was completely bewildered. According to him, the "Yellow Pages" I possessed were
crucial. When I tried to find them, there were three copies. All were in my house. All were
created by me. Literature. He called me literature. He asked about my physical condition,
alcohol levels, number of cigarettes, family status, the weather, the sway of the street trees
outside, the hair texture of the woman on the bench—everything imaginable. If I were to answer
each one, it would be sheer chaos, a mob. A mob had infiltrated me. They weren't even dwarfs.
There were herbivores too. They would chew on books, spit them out, convert them into a
sticky, soft food, and then distribute them to children. But they weren't blood relatives; they just
happened to be around the pond. The pond, in this way, harbored various creatures, and we
couldn't overstate their existence. Instead, the "Yellow Pages" Guattari spoke of were in the
wetlands between the pond and the reeds.


He further instructed me to look at the sections. The cut-off papers were neatly bundled and
even organized into chapters. It was simply an accumulation of entirely different books. The
fonts were different, the text sizes varied. Yet, he pinpointed them accurately. Even the page
numbers were correct.



"This is what Guattari wrote," I said. Silence stretched on the other end of the line. We wrote it
together, the two of us. But in reality, we didn't write; we went. What was there was a sergeant,
and what we obeyed was the stagnant water of the marsh. Our toes were almost completely
submerged, only our ankles protruded. Guattari was frantic about it. He shouted that there was
work to be done. No voice. If you raise your voice, you'll be punished.
Don't analyze. Don't integrate. Don't synthesize. Don't connect. Don't relate. Don't form factions.
Don't be alone. Don't isolate. Fear loneliness. Don't go shopping. Don't hold money. Burn
poverty. Don't hold bundles of cash. Don't pay. Pay your taxes. Obey the state. Offer your life.
Suffer. Don't cry. Don't hesitate. Don't make excuses.
Guattari negated endlessly. My body moved with each negation. This isn't my words; it's the
street via the phone. Don't go outside. Don't withdraw. What's there? What's there? Don't
enumerate. Don't record. Don't split. Don't have a mind. Train your body. Forget your body. Don't
answer the phone. Don't listen to voices. Don't write self-indulgently. Don't write. Try to write.
Don't be diligent. Don't play. Don't watch TV. Don't listen to music. In Guattari's room, the sound
of an orchestra plays continuously. Reverberation. Don't eat. Drag. Dung beetle. Don't wipe.
Clean. Clean. Morning call, midday call. Night call. Dawn's imitation. Guattari talking about cells.
That orchestra. Don't have impressions. Don't speak. Don't dress formally. Don't do laundry.
Eliminate filth. Ear. Don't listen. Snail. Guattari's voice is heavy. He's banging on the desk. "I'm
next," Guattari said. You who are not split. Cells. The body is crying. No reason. Don't listen.
Don't listen. Don't ask. Can you understand if you listen carefully? How could you? Where are
you taking me? The strange animals weren't swarming. Yet there were countless of them.

Weaving through them, the pond rippled without wind. Discard the fishing hooks. There was a
colony. Metal windows were randomly attached. The green cylinder had a soft tip, and the
entrance immediately changed.


We're not refusing to enter; we're just slow. Guattari issues instructions to us while reading that
specification sheet, even though I'm sitting in a chair.


It wounds. It vibrates. It consumes. Each word signifies a place, indicating even contour lines.
He frequently mentions salinity, but there's no sea here. The sea is there. There is no sea. Don't
become the sea. Become temperature. Temperature doesn't change. It's a matter of altitude,
and an altimeter should suffice.


What is Guattari trying to add to my literature? The "Yellow Pages" have swelled to thirteen
volumes. Clippings from an encyclopedia. But aphorisms are thoroughly excluded; instead, it's
excerpts from children's stories, explanatory notes from the back. What inspires us is often
found at the beginning or the end. The middle is always this kind of swamp, wetland, the
colonies formed there.


Architecture is slimy. My hand always slipped when I touched it. Keep the structure simple.
Diversify the metabolism. We have countless excretory organs. They're in our fingertips, even in
our nails, even in our shoes. Guattari carried a small cane. It was the pathogen itself. The
architecture of the wetland plants around the pond, forming a colony, looked as if it would
collapse at any moment. And even deeper into the territory.


He says he's going to rewrite it again. That he needs to rewrite the landscape description. He
woke up in the morning, didn't sit in his chair, didn't look outside, and wrote down only what he
saw, only the history that occurred there. He could see even with his eyes closed. He gazed
only at the thickness of the paper. From that alone, he saw some history. He didn't listen to
music. But music was embedded within him. We are the same.


"No," Guattari says on the phone. But even this phone is our ear, and our reproductive organ.
Chicks have hatched from here. Several chicks. How do we feed them? The moment you think,
that bird dies.

Guattari had a certain speed to him, but he never spoke of things he hadn't seen. As I looked at
the notes Guattari left behind, I tried to attach a logic to them. Yet, that was an entirely different
act; if you're going to lean on a cane, you might as well consider everything a landscape. A
landscape has no gravity. And where there's no gravity, life emerges—that's the truth. Gravity

comes later. First, you need to get your hands on the actions and schedules that transpired in
that place without gravity, that lunar colony.


At Guattari's urging, I opened page 336 of Volume 8 of the Yellow Pages. It was a drawing of a
room—my room. There was a water bottle. Water. Cinnamon. An ashtray. Glass. Mushrooms.
Glasses. Several of them. Lozenges. A lighter. The world of fire still hasn't consumed us
completely. The cup isn't burnt yet. The potters approached. "Not yet?" Guattari seemed to have
already finished reading. As I read, all sorts of influences were at work on the phone.
Suggestive rationality. Explanatory impulse. Intuitive labor. Guattari was enjoying a crossword
puzzle. Vegetal objectivity. Bird of optimism. Fire of interest.


But what's astonishing is that the title of Volume 8 was inscribed at the exact same time as that
string of Guattari's words. This was my handwriting, and there was no evidence that Guattari
had been there. There was the dried cannabis we smoked together. But that was months ago,
and there's no way the ashtray hadn't been emptied even once. Yet, this is a still image. Not
research. Time has passed, and clothes have been changed. But inside the closet, a stack of
unfamiliar manuscripts was piled up. People don't board rafts to escape slavery; they become
slaves because they are truly free. Even looking at a river, only poetry comes to mind. The bird
is no longer there.


A Black person appeared, and to us, their haiku was incomprehensible. They recited it while
drumming on percussion instruments. I never thought I'd hear that coming from Guattari's
phone. This means it's connected to a different place by a hose.


"The hose water had hostility," Lawrence said in a lecture in Australia, where he stopped before
planning to move to America after "Rainbow" was banned. "Bright anxiety" still nests within him.
Guattari took another Ativan. "Anything's fine. Even if it's not the real dawn." Guattari called for a
delivery person. During the phone call, the intercom rang. A human appeared. Guattari pulled
out the Yellow Pages at random from the closet.


"I am not Guattari," the delivery person's mouth moved as he signed the documents Guattari
handed over. Ventriloquism, mind-reading, these are remnants of magic that still exist, rituals for
burying the dead. On some southern islands even today, people observe, confirm, and capture
everything, down to a single insect, until a human body decomposes into bones. That is a
revolution. It's not about confirming that a person has died, but about observing them even after
death, and then preserving all the products born of that decay, not as nutrients, but in
formaldehyde for aimless research.



The heroes Fenimore Cooper depicts are always "two rivers flowing in completely different
directions." Rockmock, the Indian, has no Indian features at all; rather, he resembles a short
Asian person, but his feathers were completely fused to his skin. His claws were long. While
possessing ferocity, his manners, like bowing deeply, could not be overlooked. The scene where
not just a group, but the entire settlement dances with a destructive rhythm, depicts a state
entirely different from a natural disaster. It's not even a state. Guattari said, "I'm not reading; I'm
breathing." His interpretation, while using my own words, constantly reveals entirely different
joints. "Let's do some wax," Guattari said. "Not a drone."


Within us, there are countless airships, unmanned. And they'd never carry bombs. Language
bombs. The more you load, the lower the airship flies. It's easy to avoid radar too. Erase the
subject, and make only the guardian deities citizens. The citizens' bombing is carried out
self-destructively from inside air-raid shelters. But there are no small animals there. This means
that even as we fly, we can relentlessly bomb about the winter shopping of small animals, about
moonlit nights.


Double rhythm. It's not about "you and me." Guattari won't hang up the phone. My ear hurts. I
put the phone down and put it on speakerphone. Double rhythm isn't simply two waves
overlapping. It's an organizational body somewhat different from polyrhythm. It's a destructive
entity that consumes its own flesh and grows endlessly. It eats even in death. Even if it dies, the
organization doesn't die. Small animals performing a mourning ritual continue to eat until it's
over. There are even rebels among them. That is, those who don't participate in the ritual. Just
like you. Even if you're dead, even if there's nothing to eat, your teeth keep moving. Like a
Bacon painting.


More than anything, check Bacon's drawings, not his paintings. That is, more than the oil
application or the collision of colors, what he's doing is extreme color in black and white. A
monochrome bird of paradise. In terms of time, muscle is no different from bone. Creation is
futile. Destruction and creation. Oh, how terrifying. Destruction and collapse and desolation and
vultures. Licking bones. Every day. Like candy. You know it's not a dog, and it's not an act of
domestication. Because Bacon needs to be viewed with the eye of domestication.


Double rhythm. No resistance, no opposition, double rhythm. A state of only opposition. Only
that side. It's like heaven. I too am heaven. You can call from heaven if you just have some
small change. Seek the internal on the walking path. Swim in the oldest sea. The battle with
white. Extract all the characters. Read what is logically consistent as a complete cipher. What do
you extract? What do you add? Do you replace it with Roman letters? Is this Japanese? Don't
allow yourself the luxury of wondering if it is.



Don't hold onto time. It's not enough. Not enough. Not even tomorrow. I'm busy; I have no time
to work. That's why I called. Guattari said he'd show his face later, then hung up. We'll likely
never meet again. I, too, will eat down to my fingertips. Indeed, I'm biting my fingernails. I'm
eating the skin beside my thumb. Melting my fingerprints into sludge. Drinking secretions. My
saliva and snot are no different; the air, the house, the town—everything is on the verge of
suffocation, unrelated to photosynthesis. Even if we wait until the 23rd century, everything will
have been eaten. No one will be left. That is, Burroughs simply painted in a place where no one
existed, a novel written in absence.


Can we say there was joy in the moment of creation? There was only cold air. Memories of
withered trees. A night where only planets were visible. The phantom of an ape. Can one avoid
suicide? Rather, it's a key. It's a feather that fell on the riverbank, where beasts rolled in the
sand. Who enters the dawn? Guattari has vanished. This is not analysis. Nor synthesis. It's a
moment just before the afterimage, another way of experiencing this present time. A roar just
before the body's annihilation.


So, what's wrong with eating flesh? Don't speak of things you've never seen, like molecules.
There isn't even anything chirping. There are only tablets. Can I refrain from taking them?
Without going mad. Becoming strangely calm. Slowly growing cold. Decapitating normally. Like
a chicken. Like a buffalo. The cut opens its mouth: "Hurry, reach out and go over there." I was in
a room called the "Liquid Room." It wasn't an experiment either. We are now projecting our
bodies here. Of course, we can immediately lie down on our respective beds. That's up to each
of us. The priest went home ages ago. Freezers line the monastery. Water spills from the ceiling
onto a wailing screen, deafening, crow-like birds cry out, and no sound whatsoever can be
heard.



The crowds gathered are all smiling, raising their right hands, and cheering. Of course, this too
is unheard. None of it was ever meant to be heard. We must write here. To hear, we must write.
The sound of waves too. The foot of the mountain too. The abandoned village. The fortress.
They are not there, and we must write them into being. But what if they were? This matter is too
vast.


This room is for concretely observing that. It's no different from an audio room. In the "Liquid
Room," drug experiments were actually conducted. However, people did not perceive it as a
laboratory. But I clearly went there to ingest drugs. Becoming crazed wasn't the goal. Of course,
the drug's reaction began with muscle relaxation, followed by the diffusion and expansion of
perception, awakening parts of the nervous system that were in slumber, creating new
coordinate axes, until ultimately there were no coordinates at all, or no "me" located within them.
Even with a body, it was merely a cave, and I became a Paleolithic human, traveling with a torch
in hand. My eyes held nothing, and my feet had turned to metal.



The "Liquid Room" outwardly served as an audio room, or a cafe where people conversed.
Perhaps some felt they were just going there for tea. However, we were completely the subjects
of an experiment. My cave-dwelling self became very small, palm-sized, as I later learned from
a friend. But I had grown larger. I was bigger than in reality, observing the people lounging at the
cafe counter from above. Memories of being a watchtower officer suddenly resurfaced; I'd tap
the shoulders of cleaners and even haggle with the toilet vendors. Yet, what I was actually
seeing was a meticulously crafted circular boat, which I observed from a distance for some time.


There were seven crew members on the boat, each with distinct personalities. I was captivated
by one of them, a woman named Iku, and struck up a conversation while getting a drink at the
counter. According to my story, rain was falling on Iku and me; though we were outdoors, it was
merely a state of this particular frequency, so our shoulders got wet, and a shared umbrella
wouldn't have been out of place.


I called out to Iku. Iku was from the same village, and I was in the night of a festival before going
off to battle. There were no cars. My feet were bound with buffalo hide, making movement
difficult. But this wasn't an inconvenience; it clearly served as an anchor, tethering my infinitely
dispersed self. I was about to spend my last night with Iku.


At the same time, I was a dragonfly, and its segments were larger than those of currently living
dragonflies, more akin to a shrimp. Though the raindrops felt nothing, I felt the need to rest. The
leaves were all large, and where I landed was a fence. I felt the wind from the sea. When the
wind hit the fence, it let out a roar like a wild beast. I tried to cover my ears, but I couldn't,
perched as I was on the fence. My two selves asked the "me" in the "Liquid Room" if I could
stop time for a moment, but that "me"—the "me" currently occupying most of the present
moment—was looking into Iku's eyes. Iku looked at me, a complete stranger, and felt nothing. At
least, that's what I felt. My other self was already waiting for the moment the wind stopped
calling to the trees, ready to move from the fence to the next place.


Iku took her gin and tonic and quickly headed towards the audio room. My eyes confronted
thousands of landscapes. It was a rotating scene, and I couldn't press a button to decide on just
one. Slowly, sounds reached my ears. This was indeed an audio room. Before drinking the
liquid, I remembered taking cocaine with a friend in the bathroom. He called me over and,
without a word, introduced me to a man.





The man appeared only at night. He wore a beret, his complexion was pallid, and his skin was
bumpy, perhaps from eczema. Laughing, he moved his index and middle fingers, playing a
guessing game with numbers. I bent my middle finger at a ninety-degree angle, signaling for the
number nine. The toilet lights were out, making it almost impossible to see.


Looking at his palm, I saw a maze where his fingerprints rose in ridges, forming circular
patterns. White powder was neatly arranged between these ridges. The swirling patterns made
me feel as if time itself was moving. I took out a nut given to me by the village elder; it had the
power to equalize the cellular concentration of myself and others.


He often appeared on rocky shores. There were no sandy beaches. Being close to the sea, I
assumed he was a fisherman. However, he had no house; rather, his home was a boat. He was
clearly a street urchin, and I admired his fluid ability to appear anywhere, at any time. He had no
concept of time and was convinced that the body could transform in any way if you
communicated with its cells. What I lacked was this conviction.


Every evening, I would be called by someone from the village and enter the forest. This
happened daily. But the caller always spoke from the darkness, making it impossible to discern
who it was. I had heard the voice before. He told me he wanted to teach me what he had
learned. Of course, it changed every day; sometimes it was a woman's voice. Yet, the sensation
of the voice was always the same. After dawn, I would eat breakfast with everyone in the
settlement and check their faces. But it was never any of them. I wondered if I should confide in
anyone about this. In the end, I spent my days without consulting anyone.


It was after this that the lung on the complete opposite side of my heart began to glow. It was a
sign of something. And I had a premonition of evil. This meant that if the village ever found out, I
would be cast out. Because of this, I tried to get a tattoo on my chest. That evening, I was called
by the voice again, and I drew closer.


Light peeked through the gaps in some stacked rocks. Beyond them, it seemed to be the sea.
Our settlement didn't face the sea, and back then, I had never even seen it. "Become liquid," the
voice said. This time, it was an old man's voice. I tried to imagine my grandfather's face, but
then realized I had no idea what his job was during his lifetime. My chest began to glow again.
The voice immediately sensed my state. "Did you enter the grass? Did you see through the
water?" the voice asked. I, who had been drinking, couldn't understand, but the "me" in the
village replied with an unconcerned expression. I couldn't quite hear.



I was flying above the trees. Iku passed by my three fragmented selves. Iku and I originally had
the same eyes. It would be hard to walk with them. But I, who didn't need to walk, was also
there. The two of us were in a place where walking wasn't necessary. This was when half of my
eyes were still filled with water. I could only react to colors, and even those colors were limited. I
was searching for temperature. Cheers erupted from everywhere. It was the scene from a dance
hall, playing through speakers.


A figure, indistinguishable as man or woman, wearing a hat and with a face painted completely
black, stood with arms outstretched. Then, this figure moved from door to door, searching for an
exit. Opening a door revealed a series of rooms. Some contained people. Of course, there were
also rooms with only concrete walls and shaggy, ornamental cows just standing there. All the
rooms were numbered, and the figure was trying to find which room was the escape route.


I also had a path connected to that vision. Climbing a ladder, I found a long, narrow tunnel. My
chest wasn't pounding; rather, my pulse slowed, and I called out Iku's name to find her. Iku, who
was right in front of me, showed her face from behind a dense hedge of trees. "We had the
same eyes. Glass. Black." Iku snorted at this, swaying her body while listening to music. It
wasn't music. It was a journey, and we had no choice but to keep moving our bodies.


We need to find those feet, but right now, we're split in two. That's why we needed to unite. The
black glass had become a pupil, impossible to remove easily. I was frustrated. The audio room,
which had seemed like a simple rental room when the lights were on, was now dimly lit and
divided into several paths. We could choose.


Forcibly in a state of freedom, we were ordered to take off our shoes. By whom? The voice in
the forest placed a hand on my chest and made a grasping gesture. Then, a fluid, like a
secretion, sprayed out from my body in all directions. And these droplets were luminous. It
should have been raining here, but instead, it was the light of a clear, sunny sky.


"The world isn't governed by space, but by light intensity, changing its form accordingly," the old
man looked intently at me. Only his eyes seemed to float, capturing my gaze. "What I'm about to
teach you is how to row a boat. You saw a river, didn't you? It's not the sea. If anything, it's
closer to a pond. An artificial pond. But don't underestimate it. Creatures are breathing, and
insects are constantly targeting you."


I was a traveler. To be precise, I was also a traveler. The old man spread his hands in front of
me, then placed his right hand on my chest. "This is your heart. The world is upside down, like a
mirror." I was a person with a face, an adventurer searching for that glowing thing, but at the

same time, I was also a power, and the prow of a ship. Furthermore, I was the tip of the blunt
tool that cut the rosewood before the ship was even made. I was the spring water along the
coast for making snakes. And fine sand. The molten iron with impurities dissolved there. The
white cloth of the women making pots and kettles. I was a drop of their actual sweat, and I had
even entered their settlement. I was moving along the river. An ape looked at me, but I was
watching myself from atop a tree. I was also watching the boat. I was also living rosewood. I
was both. I was also a droplet, and I had even come to possess the awareness that we are the
river.


The grass swayed on the water's surface, gazing at the sun. The sun, too, was me, and I felt
that the invisible path reaching the sun, and all that atmosphere, were also myself. Or perhaps it
was not that everything was me, but that I possessed the eyes of every particle, that I was
something. This felt close to a scream-like sound, yet Iku heard no such sound, still swaying her
body, listening to the murmuring from the speakers. This implies that there were countless
individual entities, each with three movements of wind, eight towers, thirteen directions, and
innumerable, never-to-be-completed stone steps. Each was of a different form. To my eyes, they
all looked the same. Yet, to the next "me," they appeared entirely different, and I completely
forgot my previous self.


What I'm writing here is merely the wind speed at the moment of that passing encounter; it's not
the scenery I saw. I must not become a landscape painter. I am merely a resident of a village,
like a fiber, melting, quickly evaporating, and generating electrons when rubbed together. At
each checkpoint, I became countless versions of myself, becoming beings separate from "us." It
was a herd I found within myself. The herd was inside me. Eventually, it leaked out of me,
becoming as smooth as air, until there was no difference between that gushing spring water and
myself.


Checkpoints weren't just for river ascents. The pain of the man with the chainsaw, cutting the
rosewood, also became one of my universes, and within it, several planets could be discovered.
It was fine while I was still rejoicing in these discoveries, but it wasn't about discovering
something that wasn't there. Instead, a state of "everything already exists" overflowed from the
depths of my being. At that moment, I felt a commonality between the light in my right chest and
the great flood occurring there. Each time, I changed, and each time, I moved further away from
acts like discovery, realization, or thought. It wasn't something I conceived, yet it was also far
from being nature in its entirety. There was a clock, but it no longer measured time.


There were circles, but advancing never brought me back to the start, nor did it spiral upward. I
moved along a river. I saw some huts, some creatures. Sometimes, there were only the cries of
creatures. Rather, the unseen presence, the feeling of them, felt more real and pressing. They
were more alive. They looked more like blood.



I was forced to change at every turn. The river wasn't a single path. There were several
tributaries, and yet, at the same time, I was compelled to experience every part of the journey. It
wasn't about going and returning. As I advanced, time itself began to rewind, and I grew
anxious, fearing I had reached a place, a time, where humans didn't exist. I tried to make a note
in my notebook. At that moment, everything I held returned to its constituent matter, and they,
too, moved along a river like me, returning somewhere. The notebook itself cried at its birth, and
the joy and terror of that instant pressed into my right chest.


I felt like I was drowning. It would have been fine to drown. This wasn't a time to fear death, nor
to perform life-saving actions; I had become like the weather. I looked at the clouds and
checked the map of my progress. And then the clouds carried me to various mountains, to rain,
to lightning, to people's mouths, to animals' organs. My body was carved up, and I repeatedly
bid farewell to my right foot, which I would never meet again.


Manifold should be completely distinguished from diversity. Because diversity is merely a
perspective from a single observation point. I was always a cloud, and before becoming a river, I
became a raindrop. As it soaked into the ground, I was introduced to the birth of all
microorganisms. What I felt here was that anything possessing "potentiality" or
"diversity"—anything with the suffix "-ity"—is destined to die. Within me, everything collapsed
and vanished.


My manifold, however, continues to dissolve, conduct, transform, pass through checkpoints, and
demand new modifications, all without the need for surgery. This means it exists in a place far
removed from pain or fear, and it's still evolving right now. In other words, the state of the
"manifold" is immortal.
Of course, I am still in the midst of this transformation, so I cannot make definitive statements.
However, I have not yet witnessed death. What exists here, unfolding endlessly, is not life itself,
but that very transformation—which means everything. I am no longer just "me" right now; I am
undeniably "myself." Everything that exists here. What's more, what is visible is merely one
perspective on the thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of my transformations.
This transformation continues, transcending all landscapes and concepts, forming a single body.
It is absolutely not circular or spherical. Movement becomes transition, flux, and I am attempting
to observe something as if countless airport monitor screens of transit points are multiplying in
my mind. However, there is no purpose, no end point to the river. It does not stop. If I reach the
river's source, I will simply dissolve into the ground and conspire with the rain, bypassing any
cycle.
Nevertheless, we still use the word "I." It is not an ego. It's less like a single door and more like
countless doors, and a lobby where one can enter all of them. To say "I am the river" indicates
something distinct from the river itself. It is not the river that flows there. Rather, I am
questioning my fixed retina in relation to that river, and at the same time, giving myself to all the

elements that constitute the river. It's as if countless hotels, like Frank Gehry's architecture,
collide, erode each other, sometimes pierce diagonally from above like meteorites, penetrating
underground dining halls. An elevator in one hotel, even if destroyed, continues to extend, twist,
and become or combine with all other elevators.



It's no longer a hotel; it's a river. Water molecules appear as couples in the elevator, gazing
down at Christmas decorations. Their sexuality is like dry grass falling on the water's surface, or
the greasy feet of an aquatic insect that never quite reaches the surface. I am the lobby, and at
the same time, the view from the entrance of the hotel-turned-river, the outdoor bustle, the
roadside—these are my premonitions, premonitions of boundaries. This means I am
simultaneously discontinuous and continuous, evoking landscapes from countless postcards
and the sounds of bustling crowds that arrive the moment I see them.


When I meet a new "me" in the lobby, the lobby's architectural space transforms further.
However, this is not growth, nor renovation, nor anything like an urban planning brief. I, finding
myself within the lobby that is "me," instinctively call out. It's not coincidence, nostalgia, or even
curiosity. It's like scratching an itchy back with a toenail extended from a right finger, as if we
were organs of the same body. There, in the cafe beside the lobby, we forge a new contract.


The countless "mes" moving through the lobby journey from human to beast, from
human-and-beast to water molecule, from water molecule couples to fragrant particles
emanating from them. Finally, they arrive at that state which cannot be seen, heard, touched,
blessed, remembered, or articulated. The lobby can no longer be contained by
three-dimensional space and becomes a cosmic hotel.


The countless "mes" are no longer "me" in the sense defined by household registers,
identification cards, or My Number IDs; they become entirely different existences. Of course, the
police can bind that body, confining it in detention centers or solitary cells. But the countless
"mes" are warriors with myriad functions. Even if their mouths are sealed, even if they are
suffocated in water, air is everywhere, and voice isn't just music made by vocal cords. Music
exists elsewhere. We are now heading there, in handcuffs.


Henry Darger, the writer and illustrator, spent all thirty years of his solitary confinement
attempting to bring forth this description of the lobby, creating three hundred enormous, vividly
colored illustrations and one hundred fifty thousand pages of text.


The warrior is also a magician, a priest, a martial artist, a rogue, and a hero. His "Inrealms,"
powered by his myriad functions, transform him into a novelist, philosopher, military scribe, land

surveyor, illustrator, childcare worker, architect, sculptor, insect researcher, fantastical beast
master, and sorcerer. He meticulously draws his hotel's outline, floor plans, cross-sections,
elevations, and site plans in a completely fractured state, beyond three dimensions. He presents
them to us in this reality as individual hakari-zu (sectional drawings).
This anomalous machine, a combat-ready, three-dimensional typewriter with countless
functions, is hidden far up the river, beyond the source and springs, along the invisible river's
extension. It's the streamline of the river that drags me, the me who became the river's surface,
piercing through water molecules, pulling me endlessly toward that source—likely complete
nihilism.
There's a contradiction in such a transformation. Yet, it flows on, completely indifferent to
paradox. For me, who was human, to become every animal, to rush into the love affairs of
plants, and ultimately to imagine water molecules, their Christmas Eve, and the subtle fragrant
particles leaking from their semen—even just imagining this is already too much. In reality, these
acts are performed by countless versions of me.
Each time I intersect with one of the countless "mes" within my lobby, a new lobby emerges.
This new architecture appears without so much as a "Renovation in Progress" sign, created
unnoticed. Beyond it, on the upper floors, countless rooms unfold as open doors, tastefully
furnished and calmly arranged. They don't stand in rigid rows. There's no concept of "next door,"
and free from gravity, they easily penetrate from above, below, diagonally, front, and back.
There's no longer an "outside" there, and even without wind, it's completely exposed to an
exterior that isn't.


There's no such thing as a hotel district there; they stand in a nebular formation. What happens
cannot be predicted, not even by a god. Before prophecy, memory, and the raw intuition felt in
the Devonian period, appear simply by turning a page. Humans aren't there. Not even beasts.
Not even flowers. Such a thing is possible.


Are my myriad selves connected by land to your myriad selves? This is the next thought we
need to tackle. Can it become a single moving entity? No one knows about these hotels. The
path is a dead end now, and where is the trajectory of a tourist like me, with a guidebook in
hand? Will it devolve into route guidance? Or will I, before a bellboy in one of the countless
lobbies, who speaks a language I can't possibly understand, try to pull out a coin I can't pay
with, drop it, and completely immerse my body in the countless sounds it makes hitting the
marble floor? Will I then collapse flat on my back, head hitting the floor, bleed out, vanish, be
obliterated, and be shunned by the countless other versions of myself around me as some
incomprehensible person?


No! I absolutely refuse that. Keep saying no! There's no other way but to rage against it,
shouting "No!" Even if I'm covered in blood, mocked by those around me, or bitten by a rabid
dog, all we can do is say "no." Is it truly a dead end? Can't we dig there? With a plastic spoon.

That free, soft tool handed out to eat the artificial sweetness of convenience store pudding, of
almond tofu.


We are gratuitous warriors. We need no reward. What good is it? There's no danger in front of
us; there's nothing at all, no path to escape. There are no enemies, no need to do anything. Yet,
with that spoon, we can always cut through the wall before us—a wall that looks neither like dirt
nor stone, a seawall for a tsunami that we're no longer sure we can even see—a reckless public
works project.


The first thing to do is knock. Knock on that towering wall as if it were a wooden door to a
friend's house. If there's an intercom, you can try pressing the button. But its power is likely
gone. That's why you knock. Without believing in any possibilities, without even considering
escape, completely disregarding the enemy's size, combat ability, your own weapons, shield
performance, or the presence of medicine—you simply knock on the door of heaven as if you're
taking a Sunday nap, transcending even time, like a daytime dream, a somnambulistic game of
"ding-dong ditch."


At that moment, the phone rang again. Every call is a wrong number. "Why did the karaoke box
'Miren' go out of business?" It was a woman's voice. The woman was in a state of confusion.
That is, she was measuring her distance from reality. These things happen. It's a scream. It's
not human. It's the last moan of an animal facing extinction. It's a dying animal. It's an
onomatopoeia, a shriek, a roar, a primal scream masquerading as language.


Why did "Miren" go out of business? No, in reality, it didn't. The karaoke box is a cave, and there
are cave paintings within it. The cave paintings flicker when the flame shakes. That's where
videos are generated. Turn the microphone's reverberation all the way up. And gather your
unseen comrades. It's a festival, a festival! I shouted, commanding the woman. Confusion is the
proof of transformation, and it's meaningless to reply that it's contradictory or fragmented. It's
like us, two-dimensional shadows, quizzing a neighboring shadow, "What's Evian? Is it
carbonated?"


The neighboring shadow! How do we see the neighboring shadow?

The water droplets clinging to the shower curtain can never leap from it. Don't become water
droplets that can never take a walk. Don't engage in conversation there. Forget being a shadow.
Become a wave. Instead of recognizing a voice as just a voice, I shed the curtain and became
the vibration of a water droplet venturing into town, and I was in the karaoke box. The woman
was crying there, on the phone.



Don't correct confusion. At the same time, don't perceive confusion as a single plane. Confusion
is closer to a hinge. It always changes only with the situation. Yet, it very much takes the form of
a plane. It is always animals that display confusion. However, humans who have become many
animals, or animals who cannot fully become human, are taken to the hospital in this state of
confusion. Even if they go on their own feet, at their own expense, it is still an arrest. An arrest
means to obey. Every act of obedience is an arrest.


Escape from arrest. To do that, you must not consent. You must expand not only reality but
every space by softly pressing your fist against it, grinding and expanding. It's not impossible to
do. On the contrary, the problem is that it can be done. Remain unable. Repeat, "I can't, I can't, I
can't, I can't." Repetition is a form of defense. It's the spark before confusion. First, repeat. Don't
speak of things that don't exist. That too is a trap. Instead, you should just look for the karaoke
box "Miren." Educational questions like whether it actually exists, or if you should make such a
call to a stranger, are completely meaningless. It's simply an act of confirming that there are no
errors in the code of the "arresting device" used in this reality.


You should just hang up such calls. It's a story. To be wiretapped and misunderstood. And not
encrypted. "Where does politeness come from?" The woman jammed the vacuum cleaner at
maximum volume, meaning the phone is not an information exchange device. Rather, the way
drug dealers use mobile phones is the original purpose of a phone call. Yet, I can still hear. The
voice doesn't transmit meaning. The woman knows that politeness is not dust coming from our
bodies.



She also knows that politeness isn't carried by the wind or seeping from furniture or clothes in
the room. Politeness has escaped. From where? From the shadow. Politeness shows that we,
who live in three dimensions, do not live in three dimensions. It's not saying it's from the fourth
dimension. One plus one must soon break free from being two.


I, am, not. I politeness karaoke box woman cave. I am all of that. I don't distinguish landscapes.
I don't appreciate scenery. I melt into the scene. I eat politeness. All possibilities of work exist.
It's measured by the hinge of confusion. Diving in is difficult. That's true. There's gravity. That's
also true. The woman is someone else. Another person. That's fine. But when we understand,
when we agree, when we nod, we become an error-checking device. Trial and error. Mistaking
for an experiment. Misstatements, misunderstandings, typos, repeating crimes that can't be
caught.


A broken robot. Can a robot write strange poems? It's impossible for a robot that asks
educational questions, rewrites, and then undergoes empirical evolution. It's just text, just code.

But a broken robot needs care. There, you can find confusion. To become a broken robot, not a
human. A machine that spouts nonsense.


The woman had an abortion. She was losing her voice. The dying animal said, "It's better to die,
I'm a person who should die." It had learned Japanese. Despite becoming a broken robot, the
animal said it was human. We must not correct that. I think it simply has to die as it is. There's
no other way. We told the woman that it was even an honor. "It's good that you couldn't become
human." Applause resounded, and the woman held a tablet. But then the woman grew angry.
She said it wasn't salvation. There is no salvation in a phone call. Salvation, too, is merely
information exchange. Don't seek solutions to questions. Instead, walk with a decaying body.
Practice your own struggles. The woman grew angry, escaped from the cave, and began a
grammatical conversation.


When you clash confusion with confusion, this is what happens. Call out to the people talking to
themselves. They're in the midst of war, facing an invisible screen. Don't help them; stand in the
same place. Don't look for an air-raid shelter; become a war reporter's colleague. Run, shoot,
take notes. Describe the movement of that continuously moving, opaque horse.
I said this, but the woman began to lament grammatically. The connection to life, the lament of
life. The confused woman, who was supposed to have escaped the human labyrinth, refused to
enter the karaoke box the moment we found it by crawling around together. She turned to a
human lament. Job change, return to work. To be eternally on leave. To eternally embrace. The
woman, who had been bent over, straightened her body and looked around.
Going further would lead to a clinical state. It's not her own illness, but the code of illness.
Eavesdropping. Escape from the code of illness. Self-production of illness. The insect of supply
and demand. A job change to a spring. To meet the demand not just from someone, or a
specific class, but from all living creatures, the atmosphere, celestial bodies, minerals, moisture,
and spores.
I didn't release the hand of the woman who tried to leave the battlefield and return to being a
supermarket clerk. "What are you doing? I have to pay rent. I want to be normal. A wife,
children, a job, purpose, a life worth living." What's here? There's no factory here, no
colleagues, no small change, nothing. The woman is delirious. Don't make light of it. Reality as
a clear dream. Our battlefield is already here.
Why grammar? Throw it away, it's a bomb! An aluminum can, a miniature bomb disguised as a
soft drink. I snatched what the woman held in her hand and threw it into the river. The phone
disconnected. It's neither medicine nor poetry. It's certainly not aphorisms. But why can certain
texts, just by being read, put one into a state of combat readiness? Can we simply call that
creation? It exists. Is it my painting? A book? A song? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. I
was absorbed by the woman. There's no phone anymore.



It lies at the bottom of the river. There's no compensation, no accusation. But there's thread, and
there's paper. Enough to make waves. Only about the things people never say aloud. Silence.



"An elbow makes a triangle, standing up, a temple, bending forward, a curve of urine. Far from
entirely different places, silent Percival, surrounded by many hands, suddenly bursts like water
from a hose and falls onto the floor, becoming politeness, and goes out." Virginia Woolf, in The
Waves, constantly refuses to leave this battlefield. It's the sea's demand, an order from the
organs, an attempt to surpass the critical point of Molivitz, the photographer who depicted the
moment the frontal lobe along the river first emerged onto land in a series of continuous photos.
She ultimately commits suicide, but is that truly a catastrophe? We must constantly consider
this. But we must not think.


Christ, in The Foundling, depicts the moment a weapon is discovered. The weapon points to
where it is. The giant Piaki was subjected to persistent attacks from classmates at the boarding
house. These attacks grew more complex by the day. Nicolo, from the same village as Piaki,
was a brilliant boy, but too brilliant. Dullness is also an important nut. Students lined up in front
of the teacher to receive their test papers. Upon receiving them, they returned to their seats.
Nicolo scored a perfect hundred, and this perfection created a vulnerability. The girls around him
were shocked by Nicolo's brilliance, while the boys, hostile to Nicolo for exerting himself on such
trivial things, gnashed their teeth because he wasn't even a target for their attacks, unlike Piaki.
Nicolo openly displayed his joy, returning to his seat with a double fist pump. On his way back,
Nicolo passed by Boltich, the boss of the fighting group that attacked Piaki. It was then. Nicolo
deliberately thrust his elbow backward, striking Boltich's jaw at high speed in an arc.



It happened so fast that at first, no one even realized an attack had occurred. But when Borchih
fell unconscious, face-first onto his desk, the classroom erupted into chaos, and the teacher
targeted Nicolo. Nicolo didn't stop; he delivered two more elbow strikes, seemingly with the
force of gravity, to the back of the fallen Borchih's head. Only dull thuds echoed, nearing silence.
Even Piaki didn't understand what was happening. Nicolo wasn't particularly close to Piaki. It
wasn't a strategy, a counterattack, or revenge. It wasn't an eye for an eye; it was just Nicolo's
elbow. Borchih was completely knocked out, and not only was he drooling, but a strange,
yellowish-brown liquid was also trickling from his mouth. His eyes rolled back, and he began
snoring with his tongue extended. Sensing danger, the teacher tried to stop Nicolo. However,
Nicolo was completely out of control, beyond what the teacher could manage. Furthermore,
Borchih's subordinates rushed in, and somehow, it took five of them to get Nicolo out of the
classroom, but Borchih was in a critical state. Nicolo then used the bone between his index and
middle fingers to dig into the bridge of the subordinates' noses, concentrating all his grip
strength there. The subordinates cried out and fled. There were no weapons in the classroom.
However, Piaki was in a state of war. He had also seen Piaki's parents, who had consulted with
the teacher several times. But sometimes, there's nothing to be done by just talking. For those
who don't understand when you speak, you can only confront them with weapons. There are
also testimonies that Nicolo was just talking to himself. Nicolo was called in, and in the final
scene, his monologue continues for thirty pages. There, with ecstatic eyes, he tells the teacher

about the moment he discovered a weapon: "I didn't have any particular motivation. Piaki is from
the same village, but it's not like I thought my village was being made fun of because of that.
There's no motive. I've never spoken to Borchih. I don't dislike him or anything. I just wasn't
interested.”


Not even in Piaki. Yes. I have no interest in Piaki either. I have no interest in anyone. My interest
lies in relationships. I have absolutely no interest in each individual student in the classroom, but
their relationships fascinate me. Someone is attacked, and everyone tacitly condones it. Even
when Piaki's parents make appeals as a family unit to the teacher, who is in a position of
authority, words like apology and correction are exchanged once, due to the age difference
between Piaki's parents and the teacher. Oh, yes, I was definitely eavesdropping. The staff
room connects to the courtyard, so I hid in the bushes and secretly set up a string telephone. So
you all understand. You recognize the problem. But that's also a relationship.


Relationships are essential, but the more you have, the more complicated and ultimately
meaningless they become. It stops being a problem, and a solution is eternally impossible. But
that also didn't matter to me. I have my own world, and I live there. Even when I'm in the
classroom, even when I'm within those relationships, if I don't show any distinguishing features,
if I excel at what's considered good there, and if I maintain silence, I can exist within a
relationship-less relationship. That was my attack.


However, on the way back to my seat, I was walking on a grassy path. It was a very old path. An
unpaved road. Of course, this was inside the classroom. A master appeared. A master who
always teaches me new paths, new ways. The master said, 'Take up a weapon.' 'Where is that
weapon?' I asked. The master remained silent. I was told, 'Just walk straight along this path,
and there you will find a weapon.' They didn't tell me what kind of weapon it was, its shape, or
how to use it at all. My master is always like that.


So I walked back in a daze. In class, of course, I got a hundred points. It was the usual, routine
hunt. Like slaughtering livestock. And acting happy about it. I was bored. Boredom is important.
Because it creates play. At that moment, my body throbbed. It wasn't so much my throbbing as
it was a machine roaring, a throbbing different from mine.


It wasn't rusty. It was just unseen. It simply hadn't activated yet. There was still a charge left. A
red light glowed, and suddenly, there was a whoosh sound. Inside me, it was bone. In the
classroom, it was an elbow. When I bent my elbow, I saw a very sharp protrusion shoot out from
the end of it. It was as if I had become some kind of machine. I had become a weapon. The
weapon wasn't found anywhere, wasn't bought, wasn't given, wasn't polished, wasn't trained for;
it didn't require honed muscles, it was simply me. I was a complete weapon. I don't need

muscles. If you want them all, I'll give them to you, but my bones won't disappear. Bone is the
weapon. I am bone. I was fully armed with the weapon of bone. I had always been armed. I am
a fighting machine.


Any target would have done. However, that wouldn't start a war. Just indiscriminate attacks
wouldn't work. I tried to find a reason, like why Piaki was attacked. When I thought of Piaki,
Borchih came to mind, and when I pictured him, Borchih was there. If it had been Pippiro, I
would have attacked Pippiro. It just happened to be Borchih who was there, and it just
happened to be Borchih who attacked Piaki, who was from the same village. Therefore, Borchih
is not guilty. There is a relationship. Borchih's relationship created that unconsciousness and
vomiting. My bone is merely the doorway for that. Of course, if you want my bones, I'll give them
to you. This is an act without compensation. No one asked me to do this. I didn't attack with
intent. It was merely the relationship between me and the master, the relationship of my world,
that spilled out into the classroom, not something that fundamentally changed. Don't worry!


Nicolo spoke as if in a trance; it wasn't even an event, but his very breath. Nicolo, now a warrior
without reward, wasn't addressing a bullying problem. Reward exists in reality for everything,
with "good" and "bad." Nicolo wasn't thinking about any of that. All Nicolo considered was his
relationship with his master. In other words, it had no purpose. It wasn't about improving skill,
nor was it a moral act. It wasn't even an act; it was simply a metamorphosis. Nicolo had become
bone, and he was a weapon. He was one from the start. He wasn't saying "from a long time
ago." It happened right in front of Borchih's eyes. However, there's an ancient, unpaved
accumulation of time there that cannot be measured. And so, Nicolo became a weapon. No
currency is generated there. An economy exists, but fundamentally, an economy is only about
relationships; there are no gains or debts. When we assume something exists that doesn't, we
try to interpret Nicolo's actions morally. However, he shows no mercy.
This is how uncompensated warriors completely collapse internal relationships. Ultimately,
Nicolo will be condemned by Piaki and his parents too. Nicolo was already an opaque and
imprecise presence within this relationship, so he won't care. The law of non-contradiction
doesn't cause him to hesitate. It produces nothing. This isn't even creation. Rather, it's about
becoming a complete weapon. Having been a weapon. This should be considered separately
from emotion. Emotion only produces labor. Nicolo is non-emotional. However, that non-emotion
is turning into magma. The exhilaration of non-emotion. It's cruel. But how else can we create
an error in this moral code, if not from that? First, be cruel. Become bone. Have been a weapon.
Be uncompensated. Not only to seek nothing, but for the emotion itself to be absent. A
non-emotional weapon.


Surrealism is clearly wrong. There's no thought in it. It leaves the misreading of Lautréamont
unchecked and turns it into an institution. But that doesn't matter anymore. Things only truly
emerge from misreadings. That's also true. However, a misreading shouldn't be institutionalized.
A misreading is a machine. Just a useless machine. Don't connect machines. Machines should
simply be released into the wild as they are. Machines move around without understanding,

collide, push through crowds of people, sometimes hurting, sometimes causing a desire to kill.
Preventing this by institutionalizing or connecting them just brings us back to square one and
only leads to the justification of the misreading. A misreading is eternally a misreading. But it's
for the sake of emergence, and that is a complete contradiction.


Contradiction gives rise to the machine standing alone. There's no human intervention there. It
doesn't just become something inhuman, but it also has nothing to intervene with. It has no
other. Breton completely misjudged this. Yet, his solitary machine is still running wild. Humans
must always be seen as a multitude – as many shadows, a few plants, a landscape reflected in
puddles. You must not overlook the opaque emblem. It holds no power. It cannot hold power.
Yet, its presence is faintly felt. It's eternally invisible. Not that it cannot be seen, but that one
doesn't even think to look for it. There are no medals, but there are emblems. Seek the emblem.


It takes the form of a machine, the form of a plant. Sometimes it's a pair. It could also be a
tetrahedron. It might synchronize with eight-dimensional music. The wave has come. Do you
flee? Do you take the hit? Do you run through the wave? The ship heads directly into the wave.
Will the caterpillar truly become a butterfly? Are they the same entity? No. The butterfly already
exists. It's there before it becomes a caterpillar. It's everywhere.


I am not surrealism. It is. And it becomes. It's not a growth before a chrysalis becomes a
butterfly. Rather, the butterfly is already inside the caterpillar. The chrysalis doesn't turn into a
liquid; it's being melted down. A meltdown is occurring.



By whom? For what purpose? Misreading must be done carefully. It can't be achieved through
automatic writing. How can we call this automatic writing? I'm simply witnessing a scene. When
we witness a scene, we can't call it automatic writing. It's not even an act. It's already too fast;
we even forget that time is passing. In other words, speed. And with that, delay, or even
stoppage. These are all illusions.


Indeed, it's a mirage. But the butterfly, or rather, the 'Super' Butterfly that creates butterflies, is
already here. It cannot be perceived. It's not even life. It's not even a cell. It's not even a
molecule. It's not even memory. What is it? It's nothing. A ghost, then? It's not even dead. It
hasn't been born. Politics before birth is happening there. It's not several entities, but a process.
It's originally in a separate place, far away, with distance. But it is the 'Super' Butterfly. That is
the illusion.


A man tied with ropes and thrown into water emerging from the back of a distant truck is not an
illusion. That's not even magic. It's flawless, non-contradictory labor. In other words, it's

something that fundamentally shouldn't exist. We call things that shouldn't exist an illusion and
make them exist. In a place without contradictions, errors are adjusted this way. You can't
calculate unless you consider non-existent things to be existent.


But the 'Super' Butterfly is different. First, an unseen group finds the caterpillar. They cast a spell
on the caterpillar. The caterpillar recognizes existence. It gains consciousness. It creates
instinct. Instinct isn't something that exists from the beginning. It's something that's created. It's
produced in a factory. The caterpillar then takes shape there. It is born. There are various
processes before birth. It exists there in a different mode than existence itself. The caterpillar
diligently eats its food. However, while its instinct is set up as if it's for its own growth, it's
actually sorcery by the 'Super' Butterfly.




The caterpillar gets fat, plump. And finally, it enters the pupal state. This is a moratorium, a
preparation for complete growth. Under this moratorium, the chrysalis transforms from a solid to
a liquid. It's an illusion of preparation for a grand life, the work of climbing the adult staircase. In
reality, it's the 'Super' Butterfly's cessation of instinct, meaning the elimination of the physical
body. It's the caterpillar's peaceful end, an escape from the state of being a temporary
existence. The caterpillar doesn't die there; its instinct completely stops. The caterpillar then
thinks it has become a butterfly. That is, the caterpillar certainly hasn't died. Otherwise, their
cycle wouldn't continue.


However, the 'Super' Butterflies lightly leap over that cycle without agony. There's a dimension
of the caterpillar, completely dissolving and moving towards growth, but the 'Super' Butterfly,
with accelerated motion far removed from that cycle, presses the meltdown button as resolved.
It's akin to the spread of radioactivity. The caterpillar is exposed and its role ends there. Of
course, from a genetic code perspective, all cells and DNA belong to the caterpillar. But there's
another code entirely. They hold meetings, and at high speed. Faster than time, they make
resolutions. That's why we've come to believe in systematic change, evolution, and growing
pains. We completely ignore the fact that sorcery is involved before any of that. It's not even a
problem. No one talks about it. And that's fine. The 'Super' Butterflies' daily aim lies there. A
deeper illusion.


In Pollock's work, Full Fathom Five, we see the premonition of a group beyond the densely
packed genes. Pollock saw that. Bacon chose to live. Because seeing too much is dangerous.
Bacon said, "Pollock is no use, Michaux is better." But is that truly so? I am fascinated by the
sorcery that led to Pollock's catastrophe, his collapse. Rather, isn't that the only place where
there's an escape from the cycle, beyond solution? Corrections, adjustments, cabinet decisions,
prolonged pain, discussions, from crush to love, from love to family, that community, taboos,

justice, true feelings — but deep down, we know. The world we see and the world we know. If
we keep repeating such cycles endlessly, it just ends up as surrealism.


Surrealism is the state. No, it's the machine beyond the gene. The 'Super' Butterfly. That human
body, completely steeped in drugs, its non-emotion, that openly, even directly, flies through the
sky—that butterfly is neither a butterfly, nor by any mistake a caterpillar. It has no relation to
them. We must not dismiss it with words like metamorphosis, which describe a cycle. Target the
group beyond that. Rather, conspire with them, become them.


Turn the 'Super' Butterfly into a caterpillar, and become a chrysalis. Melt down the 'Super'
Butterfly. Have the courage to press that button. Then, furiously flap your brightly colored,
insane wings and run through the town. Pollock did that. Did he die? He is always a caterpillar.
To parasitize before being parasitized. To parasitize beyond the gene. Flying into space is futile.
It's about wielding a rocket launcher. It's about walking, dripping paint everywhere like dropping
paint, letting it unspool from your pockets, trailing from the soles of your shoes. Walking.
Walking with breadth and density.


The reason we cried when we saw the butterfly wasn't because we were ecstatic over its
beauty. Rather, it was because we sensed the premonition of our own schemes. Find the
caterpillar. Seek the temporary "existence" of birth that transforms while melting down, to
become a beast. We originally have bodies. They exist even if unseen. They exist even if not
born. Leave birth to the caterpillar, and seek the drug to fly in brilliant colors. It's not there. Not
here either. But still, seek it. If you fly without the drug, you'll only feel pain and be covered in
blood. More than that, the caterpillar. The drug. The sorcery to become a beast. Tatsumi
Hijikata, in his later years, completely abandoned his Ankoku Butoh performances for display.
He stopped appearing in public. Not just in public, but he even escaped from his family within
his own home, refusing to meet his pet dog, Wolf.



We create and present it to people, and we naturally expect indifference, praise, criticism, or
agreement in return. But Hijikata completely delved into that thought process. He began to feel
not just eerie, but an outright madness from simply having a body.


"The madness of the body is constant. From before birth. It doesn't even need to reach the
gallows; those thirteen corridors were already within me. After heading to the prison, I turned
back just before it and, without guilt, stepped into my own prison. I was a prisoner. 'Wait until the
battle lays down its burden,' the executioner said, but the battle never ended. Whether it was
lunchtime or not, no lunch was served, and I wasn't even hungry. Yet, urine streamed out,
uncontrollably. I tore myself into eight pieces. Then, another body arrived. Torn into eight. It
arrived. Torn into eight. It arrived. A fly buzzed. It arrived. More urine again. It arrived. It didn't

matter if the several bodies I tore into eight had no heads or if their shoulders dragged on the
floor. The tearing arrived. The tearing convinced itself it was forming a group with me. The
prison was always home. The toilet was already full. No lunch. It was lunchtime. But outside,
people, and at home, family, were again baring their bodies, awaiting critique. That's a
nightmare. It's tearing into eight. I dreamed of tearing my family into eight pieces. Ah, I can't go
outside anymore. I didn't stop dancing; I became a prisoner of the body. It would be better to be
recognized as a slave. Better yet, to be killed. Let someone buy a bathtub with my ransom. But I
remained a prisoner, as always," he wrote in his late-life memoir, The Soldier Who Peed
Himself. "I have twilight mixed in me. Twilight. The setting sun hitting my body, purple."


Before painting himself white, Hijikata painted himself black. He said it was to protect himself
from the twilight. Take the twilight. Regardless of origin, skin color, or status, Hijikata, with his
body trapped, entered a prison even deeper than the closet in his home.



In the posthumously discovered notation book, Dance, the struggle is meticulously transcribed:
"You must not show the body. You must not critique creation. You must be imprisoned in the
body's internal prison. You must remain a captive. Do not be freed. Even if you tear the body
into eight pieces, and then eight more, it will always return anew. The priest is a magician. A
psychic. Will that corpse ever truly die? It won't. You must silently bear witness. We haven't even
confirmed death yet. We don't know death. We aren't dead. We aren't alive. We are merely
showing each other lumps of flesh. There's no difference between us and Paris Collection
models, and Hijikata, ashamed of this, was incarcerated in the prison within his own body."
This was by no means a defeat. Naturally, there was no victory, but it wasn't an escape either.
There was no dialogue. No language. Only the body. The body kept luring him back, time and
again. "Do not move the grave, do not move the grave." It's not a monument. It doesn't
represent a place. It's not territory. Not a boundary. In the state of a grave, Hijikata was in his
closet. That was a field. You can't drive stakes into a field. That's why you mustn't move the
grave.
In his very last years, he avoided moving his body at all, becoming a complete lump—even
stone wouldn't suffice. "Close the conceptual design blueprint door. The wind blows. A body that
won't weather." He reportedly muttered this to himself. Without giving up, without effort, without
putting anything out, without showing anything, into the closet. To become a grave. This isn't
information. It's not even a landscape.
The morning light fell. "Adjust the light intensity." Comrades might not exist in reality. "Where are
the comrades?" Comrades have already committed suicide. No one starts from the same point.
Each time, everyone is gone. Yet, the work must continue. It's a task completely separate from
procuring food. It's different from sleep or sex. A time and space where all these are eliminated.
That moment arrives. Then, the setting sun falls. Twilight arrives in the daytime. There are no
comrades.





It's here. Do we search? We can't search. Before that, an urgent problem looms. Without
purpose. Without being informed of anything. What is it for? Even the voices of doubt fall silent.
Aphasia.
But then we meet a Siamese cat. What language do we use to converse then? Is it even a
conversation? We have no choice but to use Siamese cat language. It doesn't matter if we know
it or if it even exists. It's always their language we speak. Language is always theirs; if they say
they don't understand when we speak our language, it's over. There's no meaning. If we say we
don't understand, the Siamese cat will simply vanish. Whose language is it? This language too.
Is this Japanese? Whose language is this? Who is the Siamese cat? We can't even ask where it
came from. We can't tell if it's a comrade. Yet, there's a voice, and we're already aphasic. We're
in the prison within the body. In prison.
But we still can't give up. Nor can we exert effort. Be busy, be shaken. The phone always rings.
Again today. We can't see the other person's face. Of course not, it's a phone. Yet, if we move
away from the starting point, there's still something. There's no gap. Plants were flourishing. He
was anxious. On the verge. Kafka was anxious. Everyone is. But we're not Kafka.
Comrades appear one day—no, within that "one day," all time arrives. In the daytime of that
"one day," when we're not yet hungry, when we've forgotten, there's a presence of comrades.
Language doesn't work. The body is already torn to pieces. But it's crawling around. Cataclysms
were merely pretexts. We didn't flee for the postponement of life. Being here now is only
because there was a starting point; we're just moving from point to point. There's no point to
avoid. The presence of the Siamese cat is in every point. It's also a grave. It's not there to
protect life. We completely accept that starting point, that whim.
There are no numbers. A scientist appeared. He had a fighter jet. Hidden. In the forest where I
was walking. The Siamese cat never appeared until the very end. I'm not saying it's nowhere.


The comrade who appeared before me simply happened to be a scientist. More precisely, he
introduced himself as a "Scientist." He was a scientist without even a single laboratory. But he
had a fighter jet. Its wings stored a vast quantity of drugs he had created.


"What for?" I asked.


"To be everywhere," the Scientist replied.


To be everywhere. To move instantaneously. To communicate with comrades who are
everywhere. To realize the madness of the body without using tools. That sudden surge within
the body just before an animal is killed right before your eyes. Not sympathy, not pity, but
realizing the madness of the body. Just as a strand of hair, which feels unremarkable when
attached to us, becomes an offering as God's hair, belonging to no one, the moment it falls to
the floor, we must first sense this body we're attached to—is it a comrade, or a device?



To feel at that moment. To feel without thinking. Nietzsche called that the beginning of thought.
But where is the dying animal? It's "everywhere." In every place.


The phone rang again. But it was a wrong number again. The man introduced himself as
Huckleberry Finn. In this era. It's the 21st century. 21st-century Huckleberry Finn. He shouldn't
be alive. That boy. That vagrant. He'd be put in child welfare and that would be the end of it. No
family register. No money. No, he has money. He'd steal anything. Tools. Would he use a knife?
He'd probably have one. He'd be caught immediately. No status, no nothing. What about a
home? The man likes rivers. He goes to the river.


The river is an apparatus of the state. But at the same time, is the forest along the river truly an
apparatus? Sorcery still works there. That barrier still remains. The state will invade. But it will
be deceived by the old man. By foxes. By tanukis. By bats. Not just transforming, but bitten and
becoming a vampire. A zombie. In countless movies. In the news. On the blade.


The hidden Huckleberry Finn was hungry. He had successfully cleared every stage.




It's not a trial; it's merely a coincidence. But every trial is a coincidence. We just happen to be
alive. Our parents just happened to be drunk. They quickly abandoned us. With that, we passed
the first hurdle, escaping all education: having no parents, being a vagrant, being in a place that
belongs to no one.


It's tough for a 21st-century Huckleberry Finn to survive. That's certainly true. First, there are
many difficulties. You're quickly tripped up. Your circumstances are immediately flattened. In
unseen places, an artificial flatness awaits. There's no floor; it's a wobbling table. Education is
equally administered on it, by mere humans. To escape that, you have to break out of prison.
Or, you have to accept coincidence. You have to await coincidence.


Huckleberry Finn accomplished that, simply by becoming an outcast. You mustn't fear becoming
an outcast. Otherwise, what is there? There's only the gate of education, with no gatekeeper. No
one has even confirmed if it's truly a gate. Huckleberry Finn succeeded in this. It doesn't matter
if it's Japanese or anything else. Until 1914, there weren't even passports. If you reject the
concept of travel, that's enough. Better to just go upstream on a raft.



We are the river, floating Huckleberry Finn. Maybe he's a caterpillar. Is this man a butterfly or a
'Super' Butterfly? We, as molecules, urged the oak tree as if calling the wind. Here, rumor hasn't
yet merged with apprehension. Rumor should only be of the wind. Rumors that become written
are only used for control; all mere gossip is the state. The mouth of the man who speaks it is
already the state. Zip it up. Or come to the river. Come here.


The old men are beckoning. There's no harbor, not even a cape, not anymore. Yet, 21st-century
Huckleberry Finn allied with us. A farewell to those from child protective services; they're on the
opposite bank. The torrential downpour after the rain is us. We're the ones who made it rain.
They'll call it a coincidence, even though it's sorcery. It's not a charm. We knew. That's why we
called to the clouds. That aphasia. The rain that swept away all faith.


Huckleberry Finn didn't even look back. Of course, he didn't need a life jacket. He wasn't
screaming, wasn't running away. He was just following that line, moving straight ahead. We
brought Finn, who had simply entrusted himself to us without even a paddle, to the riverbank,
and the old men cheered him in. It wasn't a celebration of birth, but the arrival of an elder. He
had just turned ten.


Finn was surrounded by men and women, all of whom knew nothing of children. They had no
children. More than that, they lacked "child." Not only did they not perceive him that way, but
Finn was simply Finn. He wasn't just a team member; he was a captain who charged forward,
having forgotten fear. Captain—we've passed through every kind of captain. He's ten years old.
He's escaped prison. He hasn't been educated. He's not drugged, yet he knows the taste of
narcotics. Throw away the drugs you're given. Make your own drugs. Get them from comrades.


Finn knew every trick. He could build a boat, make liquor, and turn anything into money. He was
a thief, and above all, a poet. "Everything in this world is a particle, an invisible particle!" Finn
shouted. The old men, clutching their unfiltered sake, exclaimed, "We are all invisible particles!"
They were melting into one another. The old men were no longer old men; their bodies
completely intertwined, tears flowing, feet submerged up to their waists in the river. One man
had a face like a hippopotamus. All the women stripped naked, offering a great bleeding service
to the men, trees, grass, and fish all around them. "Spring water!" someone cried.


Finn sniffed around, then at a certain spot, he produced a silver knife and plunged it into the
ground. Water gushed out. He must've kicked open a water pipe. Everyone cheered, "Spring
water!" An explosion of activity followed as they frantically connected hoses to their respective
homes. That night, we joined them in their feast.



Finn doesn't go to school. Not "can't," but doesn't. Finn doesn't work. Not "can't," but doesn't.
Everything Finn needed, he made with his own hands, from start to finish. He sang songs.
Sometimes he drew. He could even survey land. He didn't rely on women for care. Instead, Finn
was a masseur, a shiatsu practitioner, creating vibrations on the skin of all sorts of women.


"This is a revolution!" the old men declared, returning to their human forms. The women were
still grass. They shook their heads. Someone lit dried cannabis. "Lovely." Their embraces
continued until morning. No sexual acts, just embraces. No need for contraception. No need for
anything. We were trees, neither male nor female. And from the trees, we watched Finn's
companions. Men, women, humans—they weren't so bad, we thought. We used to be human
too.


The group, with Finn as their captain, was a complete laboratory. They had no faith, no
factories. They laughed everything off. "Need a house? We can build one in five minutes. Need
money? Steal a wallet from some rich person nearby. Fifty thousand yen, just like that. Hungry?
There's a paradise called Eden in a nearby forest, where we scattered thousands of seeds
salvaged from waste. Cabbage or loquats, it's all readily available, instantly." All along the
riverbank, from Vancouver, there were seasonal chef's special salads. Finn grew drugs. He
scattered the cannabis and coconuts he'd received from the scientist. No one cultivated them.
"Just particles," they mumbled, refusing all cultivation, all artificial labor.


They don't work because the concept of labor had vanished for them. That was the possibility of
a new kind of human. Here too, the 21st-century Huckleberry Finn became entirely a water
molecule, stealthily infiltrating the world of people, their organs, the prison within the body,
breaking out with a single spoon, and simultaneously orchestrating the escape of many
comrades. Mark Twain's prophecy was accurate here as well: all depth is merely the depth of
the river, and if you're going to be a sailor, you might as well be chanting every spell on a raft.
Disregard grammar, always speak in a foreign tongue. Someday, it will make its first
acquaintance with the language of the place where it's supposed to be imprisoned. At that
moment, every abstract painting will become a single map.


Finn also became a woman, and a Japanese wolf. This wasn't glimpsed on a stage, but in every
scene of daily life. They called such a life an experiment. Don't be complacent. There's no
stabilizer. There is only change, and if a catastrophe occurs, you just flee somewhere. It wasn't
life that worried him. It was simply that evil spirits possessed that ground. Get away from the evil
spirits. Or become an evil spirit.


In his house, alongside Hojoki, Ippen Hijiri-e, Minakata Kumagusu Zenshu, Haeckel's collected
drawings, and Lucretius's poetry, Kerouac was also lined up. He was re-reading the Beat

Generation writers. What happened in the 60s was certainly not a mistake. But Finn said it has
largely been obscured by the rumor that it led to numerous deaths, a result of drug addiction
and overdoses. The old men didn't care. They paid no mind to such things. But Finn's power as
a storyteller made them drool.


All drugs demonstrate that speed. It's not about the hallucination; it's about being in a place
that's not here, becoming something that's not here. Yet, for this very reason, all sorts of artists
currently fear arrest. That is, they can only create within the state apparatus. They are only
exchanged for every kind of currency. Drugs don't facilitate exchange; they encourage one to
become the drug itself.


That's the very reason I was born, and more specifically, the reason I haven't died. It means that
whether it's the 19th or 21st century, nothing changes. It's a warning to be careful with too much
laughing gas. It's about using it to perceive that everything is a particle. It's not an escape, but
the act of entering the body's internal prison unarmed. More than perceiving, perception itself
completely becomes a particle.
A snake's tongue is forked, with one part scanning for scent. This means all perception should
be doubled. Feeling, hurting, sensing temperature, and gaining sensuality all at once. In other
words, if you can do two, sometimes expand the reality of sensation to three, four, five, six,
seven, eight. Only by confronting the reality of sensation does the dream of sensation appear.
The dream of sensory organs—that is the dream, and we don't "see" dreams. It's all reality, a
sorcery beyond all information, collected as a single medicine in a pharmacy where the visions
seen by the old men sleeping night and day were gathered.
Finn compounded, cut up, and resampled them, then applied sound pressure to deform them,
creating a single bird. It was a surviving dinosaur. Their totem was that one pterodactyl.
We are still flowing. We will never run aground. Even if it's the source, we'll melt back into it: into
the ground, into the grass, into someone's body. The pterodactyl is screaming with a
high-pitched sound. The pterodactyl, and its wings, are also us. Not a part. From the tip of the
grass, various molecules mixed in the air, every single nerve cell in the tree's skin. From there,
an invisible passage spreads. A non-existent island. We know it. We're heading towards it.
We're already connected.
The group along the river succeeded in manufacturing drugs. They're experimenting with all
kinds of relaxation, excitement, division, and manipulation everywhere.



Life's experiment, experimental living. There's always money. If not, just steal it. That's the one
place where there's equality. We all have the equal power to steal. There's no reason not to act.
Steal the methods of those who came before. Stealing is a space. It's an illusion. It's our
method. It doesn't matter if it's unseen. It doesn't matter if it doesn't exist. Just laugh it off. Even
if it's a forced laugh, it's fine. It's separate from emotion. Rather, emotion doesn't exist. It's not
that it's nonexistent; it's a public bathhouse mural. Emotion is simply painted on the wall.



Our objective is to enter the pleasure quarters, not to travel. We don't wash our bodies or
anything. We're not even dirty. We can't get dirty. So screw that. It doesn't signify purity. We feel
it as equipment. We feel the weapon. A weapon of grime, a weapon of skin, a weapon of bone,
a weapon of water, a weapon of trees, a weapon of insects, a weapon of plastic—everything is
a weapon. First, grasp it, swing it. Don't buy, don't sell, steal. From anyone. Even from yourself.


The experiment is conducted this way. It's not a message from God. It's an encounter, a
communication with what doesn't exist. It's a confirmation process. The body is hard, appearing
before us again and again. Someone's body. Like a display counter. A body belonging to no
one. Keep that in mind. We are still flowing. From where? The ticks on the trees are searching.
For prey to bite into. For targets to steal from. But they can't see. They don't even try to see.
We're just on the trees. Abandon the act of seeing and focus on stealing. More than analysis,
make a gamble. It doesn't matter if you win or lose. There's no time anyway. Not that it's
insufficient. Time itself doesn't exist in the first place. It just exists as seeing, as time, as
something that is.


The tick is hungry. But that's just the movement of an organ, and another tick is just scheming.
Whether it's hungry or whatever, there's always a separate life. We have two, three lives.


The first life, sensation, is about seeing—seeing what's before your eyes, feeling hunger, being
"me." It exists to be stolen. Just give it away to anyone. Throw it away, just like that. This life has
a lifespan, a battery drain. Better to rampage quickly, show your face everywhere, keep doing all
sorts of unnecessary things, keep laughing, and if someone asks if you have a light, pull out the
pistol from your pocket and fire it into the sky. If asked, bang. If questioned, bang. If pressed,
bang. Before they regulate you, run. Don't listen to what they say. Don't listen at all.


First, you can only plot in the trees. Plotting. The minuscule creature on the branch is a giant
saxophone. It makes no sound. Doesn't produce any. It waits for someone to blow into it. Wait.
Plot. Lurk. With your body exposed. A gymnosperm. What about flowers? You can let them
bloom. If you want to expose your genitals, do it. Don't apologize. Plotting means, even if you
regret it, doing the same thing again. And then failing again, causing disputes, taking hits,
fighting back, getting nosebleeds, fleeing in confusion, and climbing back up the tree.


There is no origin point. Every place becomes an origin point. Every unknown place returns and
settles, becoming the hometown you thought you'd abandoned. Go home. Right now. Where is
home? Plot. We waited. Will Finn come? Or the water buffalo? That water buffalo should be
dead. Let's feast on the dead one. Not dead, not dead. We know. The humans who have
finished their sacrifices don't know this.



The second life, the third, fourth—all eyes pass by. Those who don't know don't know the life
form created by cutting up this aluminum can. They call it an unidentified flying object and make
a few coins from it. Don't sell information. Whispers. Close to the ear. A string telephone. Steal
any story. Strip off all clothes. Thieves. Highwaymen.


We, plotting in the trees, are far too small. So small as to be invisible. We've become invisible.
Growing smaller and smaller. And then, into a giant saxophone. Into every instrument, every air
current. And then into a cloud, forming a Henohenomoheji face. With a great boom, lightning
strikes, slams into the ground, and a crying classmate. Inside the classmate's ear. Of course, a
snail is here too.



The boom, boom sound still lingers. No one should be able to hear it anymore. Yet. The snail is
plotting. It stole. The electricity. The lightning. The snail that built a power company. Its commute
is a string telephone. Railroad tracks extend from its ears. A linear motor car. Looper Paluber.


We are still in the trees. No, in all trees. There's no such thing as a World Tree. There are only
individual trees. Each one. The forest is another life. The second life. It's within us. It's also
outside. The end is always approaching. It's not something learned from time. It's something
done with two hands. The six hands held by those two hands, the nerves extending from those
hands, the head, the house within the hand. The pattern of the curtains in the house. And on
that pattern, two more hands are depicted. Those hands are strangling. Two hands release the
strangled hands. Beyond that, a face, a retina, nasal cavities, smelling, and two hands pulling
up, like a snake. One is a guidepost, the other is the hand of scent, something on the fingertip.
Something that smells. Coexist with something that smells on your fingertip more than with that
woman. Steal the scent. With two hands.


Where are you now? At which origin point? At every origin point? Become the second life with
two hands, the second life. We are there. No, we've already moved to the third. Sugoroku. The
country is Othello. A counterattack from a single black piece, a mistake, a stall, solid white.
Steal. Dogs everywhere, unseen by people. While they're gone, a phenomenon: a battleground.
The forgotten present. Two hands. Mud in the hands. Microbes in the mud. We've already
discarded the microbes. Stolen them. Biting into a melon. That too is our tree. It's happening.
The ticks are still awake. Walt Disney was also awake. Not insomniac. Just awake. There is no
insomnia. Escape from clinical states. From all hospitals. Wake up, wake up. Or sleep forever.
Taro the Sleeper. Walt fled. Locked the door from the inside. The Epcot project. That
experimental life was infinitely close to reality. Infinitely close to us.



It was infinitely impossible to achieve. Infinitely, he sought to connect with everything. Walt
covered that vast land entirely with reinforced glass domes. Without relying on architectural
technology. Discarding all blueprints. He simply covered it first. Without meetings, without
applications, ignoring all conditions, he first created a second ground above the existing ground.


An escape from the ground. An escape from reality. From prison. An escape from that
abominable prison. An escape from taxes, from gossip, from the very existence before one's
eyes. It was simple. A dome. To cover. Only two actions were needed. And with that, he built
Epcot. Disneyland is just a dilapidated castle. It's the first body. A single afterimage Walt
displayed.


Create afterimages. Blast away afterimages. Beethoven. Walt didn't even adjust to the 74
minutes of the Ninth Symphony; he discovered an attraction of 74 minutes. In other words, it
wasn't an attraction. First, a door. Then, a corridor. There was no entertainment. A place
children wouldn't go. A boring place for adults. And yet, an expensive place. A place the poor
couldn't visit. An awkward amount for the rich. No one would go near it.


However, there were countless uncooked ingredients there—that is, organic matter. And all
sorts of swarms gathered around it. Migratory birds from Indonesia. Even Polynesian fish
schools, riding the currents, would sniff out its scent. We were there. We conspired. With Walt.
Walt formed a secret society. With us. He assassinated the president of the power company and
those who created the telephone. He stole. And that was the end of it. We wait until they build it.
Once it's built, it's over. We were the ones who conspired with Walt.


The gigantic dome was a saxophone. It covered every space. A mask of reality. Epcot. The
experimental life is being conducted as a joint venture with us. With tens of thousands of
organisms. All kinds of dwellings stand there, houses as manifolds adapted to every style,
genus, and family. It has no fixed shape. And it's completely shielded from wind and rain. Don't
be hit by the rain. Drink the rain. Store the rain. All rain is drinking water. Walt roared. At the first
body.


It's a scream machine. A raucous boat ride. Good, good. That's fine. The ticks on the trees are
still waiting. When will they become useless? When will they steal? There's no empathy. No
betrayal. Only everything, and it's all material. Ingredients for the second body. Make
vegetables, make drugs, don't cultivate, don't distribute.


There is a second circulation. It's water currents, ocean currents, vascular bundles. Ferns,
bracken. There, mochi pounding, New Year's, Dutch New Year's. Printing presses. Phloem. Find

the passage. Walt was thoroughly fixated on passages. To move. To not be there the moment
you think of it. To disappear. To leave. Teleportation. Warp. Copy. Four hundred eighty planning
sheets. Preparation period. Time. Time.


They say Walt learned to talk to mice in his later years. Walt, who couldn't get intoxicated from
drugs, chose to stay awake with the mice instead of suffering from insomnia. Here we return
again. Finally, we're at the very end. But there are passages. Become a passage. The road
indicates direction. More emptiness. It's not nothing. It becomes everything. It becomes a beast.
Already a monster. We have become monsters. The passage is a single monster. Not
mobilization, but guidance. The corpses of the Kamakura period are still here.


Walt also built a grave. His own grave. The grave of schizophrenia. A body that is everywhere.
Stomp your feet, thump-thump-thump. Stomp. Shirley Bonbon, Shirley, Kankaree, Ring-ring,
Shirleyla. Walt, brandishing a trident and taking mescaline, rampages. Somewhere today. With
all the warlords. With all the townspeople.


The stone tablet Walt was reading at the end, Pyramid Construction Diary, describes how he
turned his entire house into a cave and lived by only flickering flames. Not just the basement,
but all of Epcot became a cave. While he locked the entrance from the inside, a few minutes
after handing the key to a raccoon, the passage connecting the entrance to the main building
was dynamited. Now, it's impossible to reach there. Except for us. Mickey always walks a
different passage. Moving walkways. Fifty-meter escalators. We, having leaped up in one go,
are illumination. Flashing heads in every town. Hips. Butts. The well-known droppings of
migratory birds. Ferns, ferns, primeval forest. And in the depths beyond, the pyramid that
appeared.



The townspeople are still alive. We are them. That person, that woman, that family, that gay
couple, they are all us. The person who's never been in love is also us. And of course, that river,
the water molecules, the wolves, the Indigenous people. All of us are now inside the pyramid.
And outside.


Our town was on the perimeter. Walt didn't build it; he merely covered it. He fled. He has no
further use. Just steal. Just reject. Who can afford a stone tablet? Egyptian civilization is
capitalism. Everywhere, capitalist Egyptianism is kicking and kicking. The common people aren't
there. They're here. In Epcot. Walt's ghost is gone. Dynamite. He became dust and instantly
allied with us. Food for the wolves. Beasts that breathe all air. Air itself.
We are drugs. We are speed, hashish, poppy flowers. Fruit, paratroopers. Countless
battlefields. And then the great flood. Even if swept away, it's us. We are the ones flowing. Don't
join hands. Don't cross arms. Dance. Dance. Butoh. Ankoku Butoh. The last unit, Nijinsky. Bears

in pajamas, Ainu unit. A jaw harp rings, a steel guitar. An orchestra in the background.
Mademoiselle, the leprosy singer, suddenly lets out a piercing shriek, Ron-ron, Gyniesky! Her
mouth splits open, teeth clattering onto the floor in rhythm. Horsehair taut against her tongue, a
duet with a saw. A new violinist. Hands contorted, several audience members collapsed.
Ambulances. Echoing ambulance sirens pierce the ears of rich ladies in the balcony seats,
stabbing, then roasting them alive. The ladies, in ecstatic frenzy, hang from the ceiling, clearly in
the Stone Age. Paleolithic. Obsidian earrings, necklaces, shoes. Cinderella is in a special seat.
Her fingernails are carved, melting, becoming a pizza. A stone oven from above. It's
overflowing. Cinderella's scream is clearly cold brew coffee. A single drop, then two, then
twenty-one, then four drops fall directly onto our cut, turning into a Splash Mountain. There was
a mountain. A pyramid. A mountain of stone, a mountain of trees. A mountain of gold. A
mountain of silver. Which mountain did you throw into the river?


The arrival of a god. A false god. Gods always deceive. And we're meant to be deceived.
"What's it worth?" Rock-paper-scissors. Seats were decided by rock-paper-scissors. The layout
of the townspeople's houses too. That itself is a manifold. That method is a manifold.
We became water, and the mark that controls water transportation. Mark Twain's construction
report. Nijinsky finally leapt, like Super Kabuki, a jump without support. A jump without strings.
That birdman. The contest is now canceled. Corpses tumbled out from backstage all at once.
Kandata. Grave robbing. The male and female thieves, Kandata and Mehinante. Nijinsky clearly
performed the jumps of two people alone. Now, all of us are Nijinsky. Nijinsky, in his second
body, is us. A supply, a replenishment, a military base. The grand stage drenched in blood. It
was raining that day too. A heavy rain. Taking shelter. An impromptu skit. Butoh. Hijikata in
double exposure. Apollinaire cried out like a child. Burroughs silently put a bullet to his head.
Sss.
The gigantic structure Kandata dug out. In the clear rain, the theater ceiling destroyed,
dynamite. And then, the corpses that had been carried to the theater's vicinity overflowed. A
great flood. Everywhere. Soaked, filled with bodies, there was one love, affection, disordered
sex, precise sex. One died. Then another died. But no one could call an ambulance. Noise.
Silence. Seventy-four minutes. The form is a sphinx, a dance, an egg cell, a sperm cell. The
smell is strong, but we inhale it again, that connection and repetition, that is labor, original labor,
the labor of scent. Break over! Work begins.
Is the construction diary a single poem, countless deaths, was there drama there? We cannot
ask. To live. If you're going to ask, become an Egyptian. Don't lament nature. We are clearly
lamented. Don't sympathize. Become it. Tragedy. The end. That is not accurate. It is not a
poem. It is merely a construction report. This text, too, is a construction report of a second
theater, a second body, a second wall-less space, a public, a time. The man on the steamboat
became a mouse, and is now at the base of the central triangular pyramid within this dome


Go underground, or Jack and the Beanstalk. The vast land is like the face of a river. River
water—not here. No one's here anymore. Everyone's gone. Raymond Roussel was a sleeping
pill. Hendrix was heroin. Picasso, opium. Dylan, amphetamines. They were led to become

beasts. In one go. A pilgrimage through various lands. A stroll. A walking person. Walking water.
Walking air. Walking weapon. Walking grass. Walking on grass. On water.

Only try what you've never done before. Only paint colors you've never seen, paint them on your
body, and then dance, dance, dance. The final dance. Then, silence. Seventy-four minutes. I
want to laugh forever.

I truly need nothing. Nothing more than this. Not space. Not time. Not possessions. Not money.
Not people. Not lovers. Not leaves. Not alcohol. I need nothing. Just let me write, let me write in
silence forever, relaxed, with my shoulders loose. If you'll just let me write, then even if I'm
mugged, even if my genitals are cut off, even if my skin is peeled away, no matter what
happens, even if I can't go outside, even if I'm confined, no matter what they do to me, even if
I'm trapped, escaping from bomb shelters, escaping from bombings, escaping from
earthquakes—we are millionaires. We have no money. But clearly, we are millionaires, beasts,
monsters.

I am the Japanese wolf. An extinct beast. Not dead. Rather, I am wealth. Not a symbol, not a
symbolic emperor, but wealth itself. The Emperor's 'life phone'—'I want to die, I want to die,' the
worries of a psychic whose body won't perish even if they die. I hate that burial rite, that kind of
thing, I can't understand it. 'I get it,' 'Yes, I want to switch places.' I want to switch places with
you. I can switch places anytime. That is wealth. I am a millionaire. I have no money.

Please. Let me write. A second dream, separate from this reality. This device called reality. Mr.
Reality sleeps. That sleep, that deep sleep, those dreams. The technique of dreaming. The
transmission. The longevity of treasure. We are treasure. Cannot be resold. Cannot be
displayed. Cannot be worn. Cannot be taken anywhere. Light, too light. Delicate ammonite.
Celluloid. Dynamite. Bang. Family suicide. National suicide. We are inside a dome. 0908106.
666. Yes, this is the life phone.




A passage for all humans, a passage for all living things, an escape route, Rocinante, with
Cervantes on its back, windmills bearing paintings of a Dutch village. Now, chivalry. The
uncompensated warrior. The knight of drugs. The marijuana of the Tamagawa River, the poppy
fields. I'll tell everyone. That place is a ten-minute walk from Den-en-chofu. Three hundred
sixty-five steps to the east, thirty-four steps to the west, and there, you must wait seventy-four
minutes.
Suddenly, a pastoral scene appears in your vision. No, it's time—all kinds of time, coming to us.
And we, in turn, go to time. This is not the end. They are alive. Completely. Their bodies, too,
completely. Everything, completely. Not a recreation, but completely. Not as him, but as him. As
a man. As a woman. As a mouse. As water. We are not yet at the end. It is a life infinitesimally
close to the end, on the very brink.
Death and life are not separate, nor continuous, nor on the same plane; they split, expand,
diffuse, leap over coordinates, and move to new passages. There, a game of catch, catcher and

pitcher, a game where tension arises, contradiction, yet instead of sinking, it rises, diffuses, and
transforms into a hail of rain. A symphony of transformation, a showcase of acts. The feel of
year-end. Applause erupts.
A single strumming warrior is still captive. We are captive. We watch the freely dancing
performer from this side. Kick down the fourth wall. Destroy the fourth anything. Destruction,
beating, slapping, collapse. Feet, claws, everything exposed; these are all weapons. We are
captive. The closest death, the rotten orange, its putrid smell, microorganisms, rise like collapse.
Encounter, collision, accident in the air current. Injury. Scratches. Fine fibers, we are fibers,
incense, smoke, the space within it, a theater. And there, tragedy, here rising into comedy. But
our limbs are still not free. Even though we have bodies. The physical exam is done. We've
evaded all inspections. Yet, head lice, dandruff, various weather phenomena are occurring in
our heads, slipping through us, to another head.



It's a catastrophe just in the brain. So what about in others' heads? Music? Before thinking
about where it went, write with rotten words, write a poem. It's neither space nor time. It's
nothing. It decays. Decays. Everything decays. Completely. Collapse is the result of gravity.
What else could it be? Who is on stage now? Do you raise your hand and say "I am"? Even if
restrained, even if limbs are rotting. The leper singer's voice can still be heard. Snail. Forgive.
Don't forgive. Rather, rot. Rot together. Don't be left alone. No one matters. Rot together. It's not
shared guilt. It's the next leaf mold, fallen leaves, fungi, noodles, the community that disregards
classification, swarming trees. We ignore it. Ignore it forever. The return. The institution. There
are no roots. No concepts at all. There are no concepts. It's not something to dig out. Not
something to sculpt. It's something to sing. Not with words, but to sing. To sing without using
words. Without instruments, without anything.
All dissonance is a hint. City lights, city sounds. Footsteps. Rustling sounds. A collection of
sounds, a collection without creed. A collection without a call. Just a coincidental encounter.
There's no decision there, no anything. There's nothing. Everything is material. For that, we are
imprisoned. Imminent death. It wouldn't be strange to die. The body's madness. The head's
impulse connected to the head's sanity. A bad state. Cold sweat. Ignore. A lid, a door that opens
automatically. More putrid smell. A lid. Our eyes cannot confirm. With these limbs. The body
makes other movements. Ignoring us. arbitrarily pulling at his hair, God, corrosion. A lid.
Gnawing away. The rebellion of the people, escape from that too. Prison break. The prison of
the collective. Escape from there. We are being watched. All our actions are watched. But show
it off. Don't accuse. Don't tell anyone. Don't reveal the source of that voice. That's complicity. We
are merely captives. Don't agree. Don't understand. Break free from all rules. The next day.
Don't whip yourself. Just fall. Just lose.



Accept the body's madness. That's where we start. From there, we discover the passage from
our humanity, and then its dynamite explosion. We are workers, laborers. But also, through
double exposure, excavators. Kandata. Thieves. Geniuses of pickpocketing. The genius at the
end. The final genius. In other words, we are geniuses in captivity.

This is the time before death. The final stage. A captive sitting quietly on a chair. But we are
geniuses in captivity. The body won't die anyway. Even if you wound it, it's useless. It only leads
to pleasure. Because it's a caterpillar. We already have several bodies set up. They are among
the swarming people. On the chair. But petting them is useless. Don't touch; just become.
It reveals the premonition of a weapon, the premonition of an instrument, the premonition of a
pillar, the presence of an hourglass. Once revealed, don't hesitate; become it immediately.
Become a fang. A fang is not a tooth. It's the forked tongue behind the tooth. A snake-shaped
genital. There are countless genitals. Don't despair even if you're severed. Move to the next
birth of reproduction. A new child. An existence distinct from what's current. An already existing
collective. Already existing cells. Embedded memories. The sea beyond the genes. Organisms
in the sea. History is there.
You can't write history on paper. A prison break from books. More than that, a song. More than
that, a rocket that goes beyond the genes. Its ignition. Smoke. Evacuation. Flame. To keep it
from dying out? Do you mean go to the forest? Who will show that? That map. There's no
information from anyone. There's no information at all. An information-less society. There's
nothing to guide us forward. The existing information is a public bathhouse mural. No matter
how much you do, it's just a tile painting. When you get tired, break it again and move to the
next landscape. Don't escape into landscape. At best, become the landscape.
In the end, the body goes mad again. Huckleberry Finn finally escaped from the collective. He
transformed into a complete manifold. He discovered a fang. Excavation, grave robbing, work,
labor, servitude, planting, gatekeeping within the body. Everything found was worn.



It was worn on the body. We came to know that. A memory from some time ago. Time. The war
between objects. The alliance with insects that happened there. Even though there were no
insects. Not even flowers. Even then, war. Why is there still war now? That's the second, the
third reason, and the body's madness is a sign of it. Don't miss the sign.
A baseball game, air hockey. That plastic piece that shot out completely ignored the parabola. It
transformed into an insect, ignoring the theory of growth from a chrysalis, a contradictory leap. A
leaping contradiction. Viewing every identical thing as alien, the marriage of aliens, and from
that, divorce. Find single mothers; don't save them. It's not a subsidy. Rather, it's the
premonition of a new fighting group, not a ritual, not a secret gathering, but organizing luggage
in a coffee shop. Encourage the madness of contradiction. Contradiction itself is new life. It is
the resting place of our second body.
Countless bodies are displayed there. No light shines on them. Fluorescent lights. The
temperature is constant. Yet, it is a vast grassland. The contradiction that desert people always
carry. The contradiction of the sun. The contradiction of angles, the contradiction of the plain,
the great desert. A lake. A school of fish. A fish finder. What creates is an institution. We are fed
while imprisoned. The end is approaching. Yet, we dream. Dreams during sleep. Keep some
distance from the sleeping pills you were given. Not being able to sleep means you choose not
to sleep. Don't sleep. Sleep deprivation. Within that, the body's prison break occurs. A prison
break from us. We are melted caterpillars inside a chrysalis. The butterfly exists separately.
My second self. A break from myself. My own contradiction. A match happening there. Combat.
A concentration camp. Lunch break. A hazy head. The sun overhead. Strong sunlight.

Fluorescent lights. Sunlight. A storage room. Where does our liquid flow? First, melt. And then,
connect not as hands, but as molecules. And then, transform into another substance, into a
beast. Become something that flees quickly. Become it. Practice prohibited, training strictly
forbidden, training shut down. Shut up. Shut up. Pour it into the passage in your belly, into that
drainpipe. Even if you put a lid on it, the lid comes towards you. A door is before your eyes. The
gallows are approaching. As expected, no ransom was sent.



Loss of will to fight. The body, bound by ropes, inside the ship. Yet, the urge to urinate, to
defecate—every urge. A rebellion of the body beyond consciousness. Madness. This body,
ringing bells more frequently than three meals a day. The executioner opens the door. He, too,
is a laborer. There's no intent to kill. Only the body's intent to kill. The body's rebellion. The
body's plot.
What's arriving now is a great flood of bodies. All the Daruma dolls, rolling like a river. We are
the river. We are the body. Quietly on the chair. The gallows. The passage. The corridor. Wrists
bound by ropes, ankles, a scarf hanging from the neck. A yellow scarf. If it's to kill, it's now. If it's
to be done, it's now. With the thin thread of a butterfly, with bound hands, feet, and neck, pulling
the scarf from around our necks, we built the means to stop our own bodies, a DIY project. Now.
Still, the body was roaring its madness. 666.
That is the passage. There is not one or two passages; it is the only passage. Every passage is
unique. You can't connect to it—0908, it's impossible. It's just a passage. It's not connected to
anywhere. Of course, it's a line connecting points. That's the passage. However, it's neither an
organ nor a sensation. It's in another place. Not here. It's everywhere. We are everywhere. 666.
Just move your fingers. Your nails. Without nails, fingers are just fleshy sticks of muscle; you
can point but you can't grasp a stone. Bite the stone. Nails more than fingers. Fingers from
nails. The nail is bone. The nail is the outer bone. To have outer bone. Gaitotsu Miyatake,
leaving the body's madness as it was, thinned his consciousness, put it to sleep, and kept it
asleep without giving it a chance to wake up, much less a sleeping pill, aiding the body's
rebellion. The outer bone, that is, the exoskeleton, became a nail. It is a weapon no less
formidable than a fang. It is the body's weapon. Put consciousness to sleep, and arm the body's
weapon. Ally with the body's rebel army, its combat group, its hunting group, its secret war
machine. Don't quell the body's rebellion; don't be violated by the body. The body's rape. All
living things are female.



You possess the potential for this violation. Don't quell it. Escape from the body, let
consciousness sleep, and then, recognizing that you are the outer bone, form an alliance. From
there, the rebellion begins. The war begins. It starts with scratching with your nails. The body is
a guerrilla. And it's invisible. A Predator. A melted Terminator. You can't even predict its location.
The body can be measured, but not predicted.
This unidentified life form clinging to us. This non-emotional life form is by no means an enemy.
Yet, we are the body's captive. We must start there. First, the escape, before that, the captivity.
Before that, World War I. Before that, the Age of Discovery. All of history resides in our sea,
beyond the genes. A ship floating there. A crew member. Or a mast. A mouse on the mast. Its

whiskers. The swaying wind. Holy storm. Wind. Monsoon. The Rama people at the foot of the
Himalayas. Their secret rituals. We become every single blade of grass, standing before that
stage. 09081064666.
Head for the passage. And with your fingers, fingers transformed into weapons by gourds, press
the button. The keyboard. There are no numbers. A rich set of random numbers. Several
signals. Our necks are threaded, by scarves, and the formalin-soaked cloth plots in our nasal
cavities. The end is eternally delayed. Quickly. A space of postponement. We are there. That
dark cloud. Where did the wind blow from? It disappears from those who don't know. But we
can't even ask.
The passage indicates nothing. It's not a place marker. No signboards. No expressways. No
metropolitan highways. No autobahns. With eyes wide open and gleaming, we can only proceed
through the passage. There is nothing beyond it. Only points. And then, starting points endlessly
attack us again. Eternal starting points. Countless zeros. Infinite zeros. Manifold zero. Life form
zero. Split zero. It's a wrong number. Mistake in seeing, mistake in hearing, wrong number. That
is the sum total of practice. The sum total of experiment.
The body's rebellion has begun, and in the forest, the invisible life form and 66—that is the
phone. All phones are wrong numbers. The second body, the third body. What attacks us. What
is invisible. An illustrated scroll projected onto the passage. Time completely vanishes; there's
no time for anything else.



Consciousness in slumber. In the sleeping consciousness, there is no time, no space. There is
only a single body. A warrior on a bed. Our warrior, who has fully implemented the body as a
weapon. It is smaller than a microbe, larger than a tsunami. An invincible rebel army that can
defeat giants or large dinosaurs with a single blow. We have completely become claws. They
are everywhere. Claws. Hooves.


Form an alliance. With claws. The grassland remembered when cutting nails. That steppe.
Move beyond climate classification and beyond finger classification. Thunder, phenomena,
alarms, warning sounds. Ear-splitting screams. Not vocal cords, but vibrate the wings, the torso.
Act only with organs you don't possess. 66. Beasts sensing cataclysms in the passage. No
entrance. From countless holes, from gaps, from subtle retinas, from fishnet stockings. Our
secretions: slip, banana, plantation. Black people also arrived. With the previous Huckleberry
Finn, rafting downstream, unarmed, exposing their living flesh, gunshots. From every hole. From
every mesh. A great flood overflowing. A flood of gunshots, turning into mice before us. It's no
good. No voice came out. Consciousness was asleep.


Before that, the captive's scream. We, who enlisted in the body, who formed a secret pact, were
completely hairy, sweat oozing, fangs bared, claws scratching trees everywhere, passage walls,
all houses, fields, signboards, stelae, pyramids. People who want to die, who wish to die, who
scream, "I just wish I'd die already." They are dying beasts. They roar in passage 66. It becomes
particles at a point, at the zero point, a high-concentration scream, all contaminated forests,

rivers, 0908 air, raining down black rain. To a point. We can only listen to it. That scream. We
cannot avoid it. Ignoring it is the same. A dying breath. It is a deep illusion, falling from the sky
as dropping painting. Bombers. War. Beasts fleeing due to rebellion.



Our antennae, sensing danger. A tail, a fin, antennae, ears—ears that hear everything, a nose
that smells a thousand miles away, a thousand knives, claws, fangs. We must not feel the
premonition of pity. Not from those beasts. Not from the dying animals, plants, waves, air,
electrons, atoms, neurons, nerve fibers. They release. Human consciousness. Pity, sadness,
regret, remorse, salvation. The urge for them.


The beasts try to speak to us in language. In grammatical language. Through syntax. But what
we must first listen for is the presence or absence of their alliance. The foreign language beyond
language. Or rather, screams, stutters, coughs, sneezes, yawns, hiccups. The passage
09081064666 that connects beast and us creates a forest with these non-linguistic languages.
Also the sea, the river, the sky.


First, touch with the outer bone. The dying make deals with the devil. That is the body's
rebellion. The body as a devil, a monster. But don't see it as human. The Japanese wolf as a
monster. To smell with that nose. Never put on clothes. To be naked. To be covered in fur. In
skin. There is no compassion or sympathy. That world of captivity. Ransom is useless. Do not let
any emotion enter there, yet feel the surge of that non-emotion, that exaltation.


You have sleeping pills. Fifty pills, a hundred pills, a hundred fifty pills next to you. A rope, a
towel, a sash, tights are around your neck. But don't be swayed by them. That is the devil. That
is sympathy. It's a rescue drama, and you're just sitting on a stage in a theater. Not there.
Backstage. The corpses of slaughtered beasts being carried into the theater. First, cut off that
alliance with humans. Escape from humanity. Mutual confirmation. Several checkpoints for our
passage. Not words, but screams, agonizing groans. Inarticulate voices. A dying gasp. Aphasia.
Stuttering.


All maps are there. But not on paper. The map takes the form of sound quality, waveforms,
spectrum shapes. To discern it, we too need to form an alliance with the body as a rebel army,
and that also means forming an alliance with the devil. Cut off from everything, and then
become a complete manifold.


One moment, a teahouse daughter, the next, the connoisseur's taste on the tip of their tongue,
the taste nerve fibers, and beyond that, the pixels of memory, phonemes, and the

encompassing concept of space, the thought molecules that create concepts. To live in double
exposure, triple exposure. That practice. We must utter such voices like a claw.


That's where the first contact happens. Do not pass through. Do not cross paths in the passage.
Collide in the passage. The muddy torrents of every river, all by one rebellion, emerge bearing
the knife wounds, the linguistic wounds, the unidentified wounds etched across the entire body.
Countless human bodies with swollen bellies. Cross over them. Like a rabbit. You can even
become a crocodile. Become a bridge. Water transforms into the catalyst that connects them.
Water molecules far from the river. A wizard.


No laughter can be heard. A single cut. But to laugh with a choked voice. To laugh it off. To take
that gamble. Never to sympathize as a human. The premonition of suicide is always the ridge of
passage 09081064666. It is the ground. It is allied with grass and desert and horseback and
sea. Do you resist? What? Suicide? Does that mean those who died are gone? It's a hoax, a
hoax, a hoax. It's a human hoax.


The body began to speak in rebel language. The body suddenly rose from the stage chair. And
then, a leap never seen before. The final leap. An endless final leap. A somersault on the moon
that never lands, a leap, an escape from orbit, a liberation from gravity was practiced before us.
Not a delay of practice, but endless practice. In an endless, timeless day, the body uttered
language. It's a hoax, a hoax, a hoax. Anxious Kafka will not be forgiven. It's a hoax, a hoax, a
hoax. Sleeping Roussel will not be forgiven either. It's a hoax, a hoax, a hoax. Kerouac, who
cursed and traded, will not be forgiven either. It's a hoax, a hoax, a hoax.


The body's rebellion brought the beasts to the front row. Scream! The weapon of voice. The
voice of weapon. The weapon of every organ. The weapon next to the organ. Weapon, weapon,
weapon. You can be as far from joy as you want.

Still, we cannot suppress the surge of non-emotion. Hoax, hoax, hoax. The body's rebellion
became a flood, a continuous stream of countless voices, overwhelming us.


What kind of end is suicide? Suicide doesn't end. It's not even suicide. It's the institution of
misseeing, mishearing, and wrong numbers. In other words, it's surrealism. It's a fabrication;
such a thing doesn't exist. The language of the rebels moves toward the creation of suicide. The
purpose of the body's rebellion is the creation of language. The body's language. Something
that doesn't create institutions. Creation for that purpose. Creation that produces nothing.



Indeed, suicide is death. But it's not the death of the body. It's the death of the human. Yet, it's
the cry of comrades, a signal. Suicide is a comrade. That's why comrades who don't die are
precious. To be human. But even more so, to be a beast. To become a beast. To articulate the
body's rebellion. To scream. To claw. To grind one's teeth without crying, stuttering, or in silence.
To bite. To scratch.


To the passage. Hurry. Before human death. It is not suicide. It is transformation. It doesn't stop
at the mere presence of a beast. It's a flood. Not to listen to the body, but to ally with the body.
To become the body itself. Consciousness is gone. It was a play. To move away from the play.
From the stage. To head towards the slaughterhouse nearby. Is it truly death? To feel it by biting,
scratching, with claws, with a nose, with antennae, with intuition. To feel. That is foremost. To
feel hair. To become hair. To become the tip of a hair. To find a tick. To run towards a tick. To
release lactic acid. To become all secretions. And to become the eye of a tick. An eye without
an eyeball. An eye like cilia. An eye of continuous retina only. The pineal gland. The eye behind
the eye. Into every substance. Diamond. Dynamite. 09081064666. That is not a market or
anything. Everything. All things. All organs, all senses simultaneously evaporate into a river, dry
up, instantly ascend, become dark clouds, then large raindrops and hail, falling everywhere.


And so, to transcend the cycle. That is precisely suicide. We should first commit suicide, detach
from all consciousness. However, we must give up on the idea that the body will not die. Yet,
this isn't resignation or anything of the sort. Rather, it's becoming an egg enveloped in agitation,
trembling, breathlessness, anxiety, fear—all such suspicious behaviors. To remain in that egg.
To not grow at all from that egg. To remain as is. To remain as the premonition of all life. Not to
become life. Not to choose that. Not to understand. Just to continuously and relentlessly expand
reality. To live.


Suicide is nothing other than living. But simultaneously, it's nothing other than not dying. To split
life and death. To release them from longitude and latitude. To leap out of the atmosphere. To
utter what you don't understand as is. To run through the passage in the body's language. At
high speed. There is no time in the passage. It will appear to be stopped. To leap endlessly.
Even if you see the bottom of the abyss, extend the beast's wings. The days of the pterodactyl.
You cannot ride on its back. There's no mobile. No such machine is handed to us. Instead, as a
moving entity, to stop. A beast sniffing around for a place that is completely devoid of time. To
become a beast.


The body's rebellion continued. The body's language, becoming war, unfolds before us. We,
before our own eyes, scattered as sebum at the front, splattering all over the ground. Music.
Orchestral music. Gunshots. Amuron beating a drum can. They all fall silent at once; there is no
conductor. No sergeant. Every place is already waterlogged; it becomes a net, a single life form,
climbing, climbing the trees. With a feverish head, scratching and tearing, hair falling out, the
queen of goosebumps. Where is the king? There is no one to search for. The leaves fall at such

a speed that no one is observing them; in fact, it's a dying breath. A quiet night. There is no
daytime.


This night is the last. This is enlightenment. Dark lines and points. Beasts gathered in full force.
Fangs are the clouds all around. A gushing town, town. Footprints of a trampled town. Did it
walk a bit? Where did it come from? Still on the chair. A net before its eyes. Sound. A piano. A
boy making notations. A dog running away. Dog. Bird. Language laughs again, sound,
phoneme, flickering lights. A mangled car behind, thump. Run with a body that won't die. Body,
me, body, me, body. Body, comrade. The scenery beyond the window. The mountain beyond
the bridge. The sea beyond that. Everything is there. It exists. It exists. Someone's voice. The
voice of a deceased person. To live as that. As a beast, yet as a human. The body's language.
Contradiction. The body is human. Human and body. Cigarette. Smoke. Communication.
Not in such a state, but gunshots. There is no suicide. Reject humanity. Not the human state,
but leave the state. To transform, not after it's done, but the act itself. To become that itself. The
front row. We saw from there. What we saw was intuition. The rest is luck. A canal boat. The
boat's destination. Flow. Depth. Water depth. Ocean trench. Tens of thousands of sounds. Tens
of thousands of gunshots. Echoes. Alarm sounds. Ambulance sounds. Sound, sound, sound,
sound, ringtone. The phone rang. Another wrong number.
"Hello?"
"Yes. This is the body."
"I am Deleuze."
The breath of a moist well drawn up. The breath is snow. On the palm of the hand. We are in the
front row. A string telephone to our ears. Enveloped in vibration, we confirmed something
moving beyond the trees.

Drawing breaths with his shoulders, tubes helping him exhale, carbon dioxide immediately
devoured by plants. A heating device on his back. From it, the man was barely breathing. A
voice he didn't recognize. The man was quiet, but through the phone, the faint vibration of
breath, the countless earthworms on a pulley. Giant stick insects bundled together, tied with
leaves. Electric wires, undamaged wiring, PVC pipes, countless circuit boards with soldering
irons. Unjoined hinges rattled against the equipment, making noise.
The respirator had already been removed. The gum tape, a result of that struggle, had faded.
The well's pulley was rusted, almost given up on. The bucket dragged against the well wall. The
sound of hitting bricks. Debris reached the water surface, only a few millimeters deep, some
saved, some directly hit, countless sounds ringing out. The gunshots were loud, but we had
string telephones. Thin threads were being produced by the theater sister unit, spinning and
clanging together. We pressed our ears to paper tubes, glued on with paste and saliva. All was
makeshift technology. We could only execute tasks with what was on hand.
The man was utterly voiceless. He had lost his vocal cords. Yet, his breath vibrated, burst, and
became a wave that swallowed us. But the battle worsened. The rebellion wasn't happening
within a rising consciousness, but outside, in the town, amidst the passing crowd. Bodies rolled
one after another, falling to the riverbed. The front line was annihilated, and then the next
group—not even a tribe, but a complete mobilization; every raindrop, hair, fallen leaf, even

monkeys were called forth, temporarily organized from those present, merely provisional life
forms. I remained, the phone operator. Retreat was not an option. Yet, I couldn't move through
the trees and lend the man a hand. There was no distance.

I couldn't reach him. The contradictions in the web of time were beginning to unravel. There was
no turning from rebellion to rescue. The body stubbornly refused to yield its purpose. Several
times, I thought the call had dropped. I pulled the thread a few times, but it always remained taut
somewhere. The man, his modified body, his voiceless body, seemed to forget the vibration and
tried to sleep. Yet, occasionally, I heard a tapping sound. Was it the man's cough? From beyond
the trees, the man was throwing something or pulling out instruments attached to his body.
When he fiddled with the tips of the trees, pus oozed out. The festering spots became
countless, rising to the skin's surface like a photograph of cancer, transforming into the man's
pattern. The man collapsed several times, headfirst. It was both intentional and from exhaustion.
I continued to observe. The rebellion never ends. I can't find a gap. But the thread is still
connected. The passage will never be completely blown up. The passage remembered how to
irregularly weave the next passage. But I couldn't run with two hands holding a paper tube. My
fingernails had all vanished. The ground, with an indifferent face, turned into a swamp. My
insteps and ankles disappeared, and the man watched me standing on my knees. He had
discovered my location. His eyes continued to spin. Occasionally, he looked into the distance.
He was looking at the sky. The man saw a giant Go star. He wasn't entirely ignorant. The body,
too, had already discovered my multiple eyes and my splitting waist, and continued to monitor
me. There's no escaping being a prisoner. The will to fight remains.
But whose will to fight is this, and what is the current state of this battle? Are we losing or
winning? A signal from the body: neither. When I said I didn't understand the signal, several
languages flew by. I had no way of knowing what they meant.

Woman, fetus, ape, fish, water droplet, sound, electron—the body continued its transformations.
Was the core already destroyed? No, such a thing never existed. There are no privileges
anywhere. Yet, we are always on this side and that side of the trees, telegrams announcing the
battle, the sounds enveloping them, the wind's roar, gunshots, the lingering orchestra. Music
allied with noise, allied with the crowd, combining, transforming.
I tumbled, tumbled. Over no incline. Through no gravity. I tumbled with the music. With a roar, I
began to slide, rolling through the trees, over fallen leaves, across several bridges, down the
river. The music gradually scattered into the landscape, returning to its points, to particles,
infiltrating the molecules of the air, buildings, churches, TS-registered airplanes, bombers,
factories, chimneys, smoke, black, red, blue, purple, green worlds, and then vanished.
A man was before me. Just a little further. I had no hand left to reach out. "It's no good," I said.
The man exhaled towards me. "Survive. Survive like music. Survive like that music that
permeates not just every substance, but its entirety, its very relationships."

The vibrations resonated within me as the body's language. I heard the sound of cicadas. Also
the cries of birds I couldn't identify. I notated them. But how? I had no hands. No body either. My
consciousness was asleep. "It's no use!" I despaired. "I'm saved!" The man suddenly

transformed into an innumerable swarm of cicadas, shaking the voices within their bodies all
around me.


The trees were blown away. The rebellion was blown away with them. Beasts are lurking in the
forest. Night eyes glowed everywhere. Infrared [light] hit the crown of my head. "It's no use!" "I'm
saved!" "It's no use!" "I'm saved!" A cicada, barely clinging to a single blade of grass on the
edge of a cliff, is letting out its final day's cry.


I was swept away by the music, my voice—a voice that couldn't even be called a song—was
swept away by the music. I went toe-to-toe with the cicada, slipped on sweat, and landed with a
thud on the ground. Then, with a recoil, I shot upwards, becoming sound once more, connecting
to become music, and screamed, "It's no use!" The cicada, exhausted, fell with the grass
towards the bottom of the cliff. Its empty, temple-like body. Its sizzling cry never became a cloud,
but kept rolling around there.

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About the Author

Born in Kumamoto Prefecture in 1978, Kyohei Sakaguchi is a multifaceted Japanese artist,
excelling as a writer, architect, musician, and painter. He graduated from Waseda University's
School of Science and Engineering, Department of Architecture, in 2001.

Sakaguchi gained recognition in 2004 with his photo book, 0-Yen House, which documented the
dwellings of homeless individuals. This work served as the basis for his literary debut in 2008
with TOKYO 0-Yen House 0-Yen Life.

In 2011, following the Great East Japan Earthquake, he controversially assumed the role of
"Prime Minister of the New Government," an experience that led to his highly discussed book,
How to Build an Independent Nation.

His literary achievements include the 5th Kumanichi Publishing Culture Award in 2014 for
Phantom Years and the Kumanichi Literary Award in 2016 for Family Philosophy. His other
notable works include Zero-Starting Urban Hunting and Foraging Life, Haiku Taxi, and Reality
Dwelling.

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