Description
Play begins with the letter p and so does the color pink.
But in other languages pink is rosa, rozoviy, rózowy, ピンク and pinkki.
She said, Isn’t this flower an ultimate symbol of my precarity?
My precarity and my precariousness, which differ in as much as do our future revolution and this current restless state.
She said, In many languages you should know this rose is pink.
In this festival, this heterotopia of spectacle, the people are pink.
In other words, a new time of and for the vulgar.
In the girl in her pink, in her breasts, black cap, in her rest, in the man, in his cock, in his stance, in the stands, in the faith in and nihilism of corn.
“Who knows how the invasion of a crowd in the street will end?”
My question is when is festive expenditure allowed and what is wagered?
I too adopted new manners of play in the synchronous mode of festival.
I’m also a body beyond portraiture.
Behind her, History’s backdrop is falling out of its contextual frame.
The danger of the state capitalizing on the vulgar to solidify its rule.
That’s why I like to set you on fire, she said.
That’s why I like to walk in shorts this way.
Because I am inside this pink upheaval of pink.
And in your language revolution means to roll back.
But first shan’t we wash away all the false notions of “progress”?
In the frame they have him in a cage and I think they will submerge him in water.
I think if today we concede to caricature our person then tomorrow we’ll be free of personhood.
To me, that possibility is anything but insulting.
Maybe that’s what precariousness is, possibility + time.
So we look at you closely and find out you’re acting up!
A cataclysm, “a sudden, violent upheaval, especially in a political or social context.”
She said, Let me read you a quote from Sade.
“You are too intelligent to fail to sense that new government will require new manners.”
This is a provocation, a play, it is pink, and predicating.
Soon it will be useless to even call me a citizen…
She and I and he and it are transgressing into midnight.
The festival is erotic, debauched, (I got pink eye), and it works in its own time.
And this rose that I hold up and that we share and is pink and will break.
Therefore, under the logic of capital you believe I’m selling you a balloon.
Then night sets and she said, Let’s take a picture.
Then the moon turned pink and the alcohol would amp up the wounds.
Then we asked if this has anything to do with the elections.
But until then I’ll roll back and stress how I fake my person abandoned to precarity.
I somehow see this failure as a possibility of my own personality.
I’m working toward consensus and its role in this everywhere place.
On the surface it’s suppressed, like blood under the skin.
When the people mass does this equal massification?
When the subject interacts does she snub our gaze and begin to party?
I would say that because play can begin like pink in one language our role is neither posterity nor the history of what is made.
Nothing is steady.
Dionysian seed: never; to wash down (kata – kluzein): no.
To find in the popular, in a festival, the failed capture of wild time?
She said, Despite these smiles there is no way to predict their loss.
In the frame they have him right next to what I think is a dragon.
