Heaven. Limbo. Hell. Vast receivers of percussions. Water sounds out Time as its energy shapes itself into a tongue. Ear is an ocean, light that resembles our inner shores. A light that washes away throats and our need to speak, washes away entirely of wounded pages. Sound, silence is the only way to think. Percussions, air in the skeleton that grinds calcium into blood of wheel that composes blankets of black squares’ release. Gothic cathedral. Zero that knows Friday, a stretch on the cross of scorched Earths' nest. Pilgrimage in vomitorium and iconoclasm of this century's’ bronze T-shirts chisels seamless. Human in white moves in the body of Earth a lot, not in the stillness of water, and edits all births, as brain stems under glass are converted into raw fleshes. Self is too distant. Own thoughts are invisible. Babylon is in every umbilical cord and media. Leather and shadows, functions and memories. Personalities were designed to cause sinking of our singular consciousness. To avoid opening of Being and fall under inaudibility of history repeating itself, commanders now wear human leather, a net of laughter, and erase sight further. Calling arms are enrooted in every lecture where none is a wound and scorch is a garden city. Cache disabled our chronograph, astrayed breath of a living person.    

 

How does one come into the knowing of intonations that people had in BC times? The written word is known, but the wind of words in pages of a tongue… castle pipes, hacker pipes, purified from Prometheus's fire, inflict timelines. Non circular spine of burned libraries, wound caterpillars. All hang on wooden crosses. A fire match has placenta where fire meets the wood. Meaning is monologue in motion of Kosmos. Banshees are that which vapor of water wanted to say. Unfeathereable. That which flies, that which writes... Wrapped up in leather books placenta, repairs and hurls souls into Prometheus's rock - the only science. To hang on the cross. To hang on the rock. To be bound to a cross. To be bound to a rock. Fire is in all palms. Rotation of Time is neither restricted nor a repeat. All art and science is an illustration of Universe.

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Hacking pipes, WWII simplified minds reach. Our language has failed, motion of the Sun is not seen. We are neither parallel to reality, nor its background. Artists - researchers of circles - are too distant to centuries. They have no grip on a sand rope. They hold it tight

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Babylon.

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People are too easy to maintain, they were removed from soil and sorrows. All universal knowledge, that in grief and trouble, that which has made literature, philosophy and science nowadays is dismantled from emotional choir. When I weep I know the origin and cause of trouble. I know the cure. When people get sick, murdered, poisoned, raped, grief strikes them with mad sorrow to find a cure. It drives minds to understand why, to taylor matter of peace. Pain turns people into scientists, artists, hackers, detectives, governmental officials, doctors, etc. Pain heals history. Pain cleanses ribs of disease. Who had to get sick for vaccines to be madly searched for and invented? Too many deaths paved the road for science. We are exposed to an outline of makers objects and never wonder what is written in their centuries long blood. Researchers hands breathe metamorphic monologue of Universe. Their hands are purified from wishes to be something (an artist, a doctor, a computer scientist) for they research and are driven by the research. Researcher's hands breathe reason and morality, ungraspable Universe that gets both bigger and smaller with every discovery.

Artists have always been researchers of life, eternity, that which vanishes the more one grasps it. Nowadays, artists are simply in the train of life, in the virtual wagoon, a lalala. The life as such as well as the meaning of its word have been walled from them and walled for them since birth. Artists became users of Life for ancient knowledge is censored. And so artists swim in the given to them pool. Inventive, too, but their hands do not submerge into water… It is gross, lalalas are sterile creatures. Art became a simplification, a single bit of pattern in the fabric of Kosmos. Cross-stitched all elements must be - ornaments of simplicity and Universal sewn Together.

For an artist of nowadays to make something is to simply make use of tools. That has become an accepted standard, the simplicity of which narrows one's ability to see the snake itself. For a musician, however, to create, at first an instrument has to be learned. Poetry, scales, soul grammar, literature... Goth musicians are the last standing Divine. They are not simplified in spine. They excavate that which has ruined Time and that which runs Time. They sound out shapes of the erased past. Their sounds are those of people trapped into fonts, people that lost cultures, dimensions. Alchemists, monks, philosophers, armies, artists, engineers, etc. Their voices are of raped out placentas. Their prevented throat bells growl that which an archaic human carved out. Liquid corpses, banshees travelling through Time metal music is. Fallen from nests they know Lacrimosa, the weeping, Our Lady of Sorrows, a donor heart, that which is a gift.

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If one looks too much at servos, servos look back. Servo, as a controlled human, as a body of its government.

For a musician to make a musical album, dozens / hundreds of songs must be written, not to mention years of sound and lyrics excavation. An album project also includes music videos, visual sketches, learning the technical tools of media as well as live performances and clothes. This is content of one musical album. Now compare it to a single project of a visual artist. A visual element nowadays art is, a decor, a sticker of virtual. It is simply a chord, a song in the best case. So why is visual art has become so simplified?

What is visual to begin with? It is all that we see. If one simplifies the visual reality, understanding of it - all knowledge will fade away. We only see as far a we think and visual artists make works about one pixel, one element of a whole. When we read literature, the reality, the visual is simply painted in front of our eyes. Artists should exercise more in visualizing each word, phrase instead of straightaway turning singular concepts into artworks. Those are scales, chords, a pizzicato, a very your own way of holding a bow of a violin, elements of a whole, a diary, a sketch. One should rather focus on creating complexity - that is the gap of this century. We have been too narrowed and simplified. The global snake of today must go in the slowest, most observant way through all umbilical cords, searching for eyes of a needle that fall into a well of a media ring. We have an incredible amount of knowledge, absolutely taken for granted. Internet peels. Internet, with vast amount of philosophical books reveals meaning of this century. Its medium - computer - is so far the most complex human invention. Its message is twofold - it both destroys and heals. It misguides as well as gives us mind tongues. Internet changes the meaning of a word “authority”. Landscape of today is that every single human being is a comma, a trees’ root, not a full stop.

 

Computer as a medium can translate anything into anything. So far visual art has done almost the same in terms of translating reality into mediums. For example. Computer can translate sound into a moving image. So does visual art. Computer can translate a story into an object. Art does the same thing. Computer serves both as in between human and reality, as well as absolute translation devices between any medium imaginable and existing. And computer stands for a tool of war.