these videos have become quieter and quieter, the slightest movement of the face murmurs volumes with the world's voluptuousness. after my death and lack of resurrection, there were some images from the natural world, bland but with diacritical markings that foretold that 'truth which cannot be spoken' because in fact truth is in fact and inscription always already blurs and devolves towards the abject. i have found this truth in fact blunt like pain, unclassifiable. within the world of the residency, i have discerned, and this a newer subject, several taxonomies, those artists working towards the global, those working towards frameworks for social media, and those like myself, burrowing through pain and its syntax under erasure, in the hope that something unspeakable might emerge, useful nonetheless, in its oozings or scars, cicatrix. but here in azlion is thinking and thought manifesting in other thought, a detour which returns as the imminent always returns, never having left. so that this becomes a success work i think, or part of a work or annotation, as well as a glimmer of happiness around the rim of the bangu drum, in other words, no longer inert. but then these pains continue, so that the looping holds the world off in its arhythmic destiny, such is grandeur in everyday thought.