While I paint or paint walls, those which are my unconscious. And the more I paint, the walls rise more, as I thought I had only four rooms in all common mortals, but they multiply.

I give my work through the sacred rite I impose: the impress in the canvas in front of me, she looks at me, peering, peering between the rips, holes, crevices where the real "you miss a word too" - as Florensky said to his sons. There, inside those holes, revealing a glow, a warm flush of warm light, surrounded by sentinels that noetic, ordered and supple as Martial ants, protecting all in a row, the corpus of the Word ermeticum.

The figures come to life, are printed in the framework plan, the marble of paradise, artificial, often as a smile old, full of mysteries. I paint landscapes arise in the looks (not). Born houses, roofs and windows and that's finally beginning to speak. The brush listens and then responds, in color, shining, falling, drop down sheer over time.

And I sanctify, judgments, preach from the altar. As the priest tells the future, this stretch, transmutes the past. Here is the Trinity which becomes non-existent in the Councils units, dimensionless time paradox: neither linear nor circular, simply end.

The ceremony goes on, melts and blends ancient rhythms of the blinding power. Intent as a clear, true as a sprout, psychological, stretched out, hanging, inside, tired, dull, tense, framing the way the Temple tired of all this yearning. Impervious corrugated frescoes in the Church, cast, carved ... This assumes my Ceremony: Waving signs, potholes, voracious vaginas virgins hung, laughing, gave up, sat, terse, fresh ethereal frescoes spent swaying, relaxed, surrounded by perfume. Reek initiation bursts around, wrapped in incense dries tears because religious relics of dead ideas and buried, and sharp as broken mirrors and dogmas. "They sleep the vessels wanderers arrived from all boundaries, to meet your desires" (1) ... So sings the chorus of those paintings in the Church, witty and severe: the Egyptians.

Torture impose silence, scripture lie suspended over the centuries, centuries.

Amen.

NOTES:

(1) F. Battiato, Invitation to the trip.

Being published in the anthology "Insanity or holiness," Limina Publisher Mentis.