Necks sprout as wheat-ears in the field, while their heads roll about them, the ear is still filled with dirt and the eye – with weeds and ants. The horseman of the ghostly harvest is far and his organs multiply as reptiles, as cells dividing, as seeds self-germinating. The horror is the seed of the ghost. The ghost is the body of the double. The double is the very dark substance, the grey matter of dusk, of the limit, of Erebus and Nyx, of the obscure and the untraversed, of the frail flesh of the flood of this world.
Where the air is not enough, our nightmares are dispassionate. Where the heat is not enough, our dreams are half-and-half. Where the transition between dream and life is unsteady, the heads proliferate. Now, at dawn, we will never again suck from the tits of darkness.
You, who know nothing of nature, will never suck its black milk, its dark, cruel milk, its last milk, its unfulfilled destiny.
We are immortal enough to never again run into the arrogance of life. We are dead enough to leap across any grave. We are proud enough to overcome all vanity of desire.
We are the doubles.
Fragment from Pandora’s Daughters (Vierte Welt, 2016)