This putative silence forces us to speak.
Incompleteness, motion, process.
We see the materials, whose presence makes us believe that there is something wrong.
But, what is wrong?
Is it me?
Is it an attitude to my incompleteness, or is it necessity to be in motion?
I wish to be machined like the materials lying on the ground, hanging on the wall.
Omnipresent pragmatism is substituting with my constant ambivalence.
The thing makes me think.
Unhappiness of soulless objects brings neutrality to soulful subject.
There has to be something wrong.
But, there is not.
Do not be quiet, please.