THE ATACAMA CYCLE

This morning, the 5th of December 2022, 11:24, as I’m working in my room, as I’m sitting at my desk, reading what I have to read, writing what I have to write, as I am filling forms and crunching numbers, as the coffee piles concentric rings inside my mug, the never ending layers open up to interminable parallel skies –

Incipit – or – 6

A metal gallop through scarlet shapes, piercing dust clouds, denting landscapes.-

At first, there were six of them.

Four suns rising

A moonless night

Three sunsets more.

Sometimes we wonder if the dunes and cracks of the earth know exactly where they’re taking us.

4 One bottle, five friends, two bottles, now four.

The cloudless nights seem ever hungry And fires burn for evermore.

Warm flames, three people, cold winds, only two left.

“Everything was centred around the sky, because it was so prominent. It was hypnotizing me to be in that moment. It took a freedom out of me.”

There’s often bitter prices to instants of small insanity.

Epilogue – or – 2

Young man, what do you think about when you look at the sky? Are you lost in the sideral layers? How close are you to losing your mind?

The rhythms, The rhythms will get you. They fire up your freedom, until your senses are numb.

The rhythms, The rhythms will twist you. It’ll make you do things that can never be undone.

Young man, vigilant eyes feast on the desert at night. Aren’t you worried that they witnessed your crime? That stars may be silent, but that they’re not blind?