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Starting from sailing with two boats at the same time, we are not children of the sea. We, schizophrenic me and me, hear the boundless sounds of waves and the quiet corner in a familiar cityscape simultaneously. Salty moist air is a nice blanket for dreams. It is always about dreams that go offshore from the beach, take on a journey through space without spatial qualities and through time in times. It is always about going there there dear.

Together we sank into the inbetween of the present and memories, my experiences in the mirrored room in Kassel and reading this book, two hypnosis sessions in room 209, one with Marcos there and one with Marcos as a sound sculptural frequency. My feet are like two kites, smiling. Each page smirks to the next one. The mirrored twin page numbers construct pendulums between more lines. Me me mind mind swing. The consciousness levels split into the long long staircase, and I could feel WE are walking down and up, in and out till we lose bodies. Form is the last tangible thing, but everything else is amplified up to the sun-scale heat. Things look bright and pretty. Our dreams look pretty with new action of painting. All movements are free and multi-dimensional. They become music. How can music exist when space is melted? We think. I become music when I become the space and the echo and the sound waves too. New mystery is unfolded in front of my nose. There there. A new sense of me emerged. We multiply. We are so light. Our composition is amusing and embracing. 

One thing happened, or let’s say, a switch was on. I realized, no, we realized that all we want to do in art is to transform space and time. It is the biggest power of art. The infinite desire for time travel burns our hearts. What happened there there there was that time became an origami game, folding into varying shapes, and we travel there, coasting along with the edges, the lines, the planes, the gaps, and there is purple, yellow, pink, and pistachio green. A palace of colors and warm tastes from the memories. Oh, we think this is such a predictable trick with the stairs. Why is it so uplifting when there is no measurement for time? It is so far and yet close. Like listening to two tracks of music scores at the same time. We can’t find any sense of harmony but it doesn’t matter at all. 

You find explosion of you. I find peace of me. You find flavorful lights. I play behind shadows. I can count ten to one, too. So I count ten to one, and I become so small, less then a feather or dust, in a nice little hole. This hole is however physically like a liquid yolk larger than the Pacific. We are still traveling, though at different speeds. I think of how I go to sleep everyday, and this is a bit like it, letting flashes of memory crash through the brain, drumming moments into electronic waves. You cry. Who cries? You try to identify me there there. Dancing in herby land. I grow into a tree and eat air. Why sigh? Lovely wind.

You take a sip of murky coffee, Turkish sweet and orbiting around a new gravity. A breathe of fresh looking universe inhaled. We have more feet than ten octopuses, so we we dance to expand the air and send messages. Me me informed by big energy. You you just feel your head is tilted, leaning against a soft pillow that smells as a hopeful tomorrow. We we like to sing. 

It makes no logic. It creates unbeatable rhythms. Intense and charming. Our eyes open and see the world differently. We age zero like babies. After being there there dear there, songs we remember and minds leap.

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