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Half a jar of holy water, ten milligrams of mineral salt, six drops of prolactin-rich blood, twenty milligrams of potassium citrate, the essence of ten lily petals, poppy shavings dried between old books and the nectar of three slightly warm peaches. All set to boil, you get a thickness of painless softness to all kinds of touch. A carmine dye serum, ready for intravenous racing.

It is a very emotional chemical cocktail, the last desperate solution of one impotent against life. A more scientific than divine experiment. Which, according to my deductions, would result in the unique relief of my humanity, of every splintered word and, in general, of the production of pain as a vital reaction.

In any other case, a procedure like this would have been a cause fortorture. Such a compassionate union of ingredients like mine has been unable to achieve such effects. I like to think that there are elementswithin my reach devoid of any fury. I think of my previous list this way,and I recognize the irony of my calculation. For isn't the peach, like everything else, the product of violent collisions?

Cosmic or cellular. Clouds of gas and dust collapse under its molecular attraction, heating a bubbling core that results in life. Thus, peaches, still united in bone and stem to their roots, explode with fury on earth.

The results paint an unexpected success. Through eyes, ears, vagina, and nose bleeds a resin that lubricates the driest parts of my skin. Soon I lose my eyesight, and a multitude of shoots begin to sprout, apparently the result of an accidental graft between seeds. Soon, they completely cover my anguished head. Deprived of mobility, turned into bark, I remain forever sensitive to touch. One, who for the first time, does not intend to hurt me.




Printed on seasoned linen

46" x 44"

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