you have changed so much throughout the last year you say it’s odd how you are chameleonic you say I think it is because of the hair. «Did you do something funny last night?» «I stood looking down from this very window. It was quiet. It was dry» «You could have come out with me» «Where were you?» «I do not remember. I do not remember at all» «There was a savagely silent noise out there» «Are you aware of the way this place is changing us… has changed us?» «I am… I see».

cathedrals of overwhelming control and inanimate suffocation, massive landmarks for a systematic build-up of nothingness, a wild condition pretending that it’s giving the most unique of all gifts to such mechanized devotees. what the fuck are we doing here anyway? the sky is an aggression in this place, and there are no chants to hear. not a walk to explore or to learn a thing, but only to hopelessly hurry at every step. a full amount of miserable objects up to fight in despair for a little piece of time that is already gone. no doubt we are in this together, and I am really glad that at least I am beside you in all this collapse, but not you, neither you. I hate you fuckin’ retrograde zombies; you are the horror, you are that stuff.

a strong futurism which is resolved around the longing for the past, some mythic narration of the present that never was true; unsymbolic, unreferential, turned-down inward only. a colourful chronicle as the promise of a much more colourful tomorrow; the mythical past as the talent of a future never so modern, never so new. heads full of glitter while kindly walking to the office fringed by cyclopean bodies of concrete. it’s all scouring sand and killer sun. scouring sand and killer sun. we were never so lonely. and in the meantime we bombastically ask ourselves overblown questions about being, we pretentiously wonder about the mechanics of the body. but all these enquiries are so misguided, so awry, so painfully useless. and that’s why the outcome yields a cluster of pointless utterances. no being matters, no body matters, only ecologies, and some ecologies are dead, some ecologies are empty. dead and empty ecologies are to result in dead and empty beings, in dead and empty bodies.

we will miss the surroundings of Tudmur. we will miss M’hamid El Ghizlane.

we will forget them, and then we will miss them.

we will miss the surroundings of Tudmur. we will miss M’hamid El Ghizlane.

we will forget them, and then we will miss them without knowing a thing.

we will miss Bādiyat Al-Shām, we will miss Erg Chigaga.

we will miss those sceneries, we will really miss them.

and then we’ll never know where this grief comes from.

…

Jesús Negro García (28/08/1981) is a writer and a translator and proofreader, author of two published books of poetry, Historia del tiempo presente and mientr▲s dormí▲mos l▲ gr▲n siest▲, and his work have appeared in different journals and collections. He lives in Oviedo, Asturias (Spain).