R O U N D OF AP- PLAUSE // BABY MAKE THAT ASS CLAP

THE VIRULENT POS-
SIBILITIES OF OUR
NEW UTOPIAN LIFE-
STYLE
Inside of the bedroom on the island, outside the flaring sun, the water
streams and mist floats inhale the light. The hotel we live in flooded
with sand for the first ten floors, when we walk to the coast our legs trek
the hill. Our hotel is our own, for we are the only inhabitants of the
island, our voices resounding in silence and wind, our movement the
only present human life.
Cement structures overwhelmed by sand and the green fauna of our
island climate. Some buildings belong to snakes and we do not bother
them but we know they are beautiful. Once, before, we found a canister
of 16mm film, and watching the film projected into the warm eternally
summer night, we discovered that a building across from out hotel,
dome-topped and filled with long hallways and short baths, once belongs
to a religious group who suffered a maniacal fixation upon snakes,
sharing their lives with the snakes and holding the symbiosis as prove
of their god’s existence, of a light, of a heaviness, of a motivation. The
snakes find themselves holy and they forget about our hotel, they ignore
us.
Empty war bunkers, abandoned, like everything here except us, to a past
where war meant money and money meant power and freedom didn’t
matter. Today we will tan our flesh on the jutting monument of the
bunker’s garrets, and when our bodies warm too warm they will find the
sea and splash the day. Swimming. We dive off cliffs and rejuvenate in
the soft of the spring. The depths. Undersea opened eyes, squint and
see the life. Squint and see the life. We can know nothing but pleasure.