Two streams shoot out of the stone, the stream of life and the stream of death. Shadow and light shine from the stone, bow and bow, cannon and cannon. The name of the bow is life, but its deed is death. The name of the bow is stone, one of its deeds is life, the other is death. In the rhythm of igniting and going out the cannons alternate, compete, abolish. The stone is the restlessness of origins.
The stone draws trajectory in the sky, meteor, cutting through the dusk, sword, slitting the dark meat in two. The stone is a guiding star, it turns the milk of the way.
The stone doesn’t have meat, nor bone. The stone doesn’t have seemingness, nor lie. It stays. It persists. We milk the stone. We suckle stone’s milk. The Stone runs in our veins and arteries, the stone lies in our bones, the stone condenses in our temples, lowers our heads towards the rocks, the stone carries us.
The name of the arch is stone. Inert mass. Lapidarium Iceberg Stone in Milky Way’s trunk the Deathlike spiral of Minotaur, of the spiral labyrinth of evolution, in whose bottom the stone irradiates.
The Stone is free of world. The freedom stone shattered the glass of Man.
Stone in the forehead, in the point between the horns. Stone – the first technique. Stone, antrhopogenous substrate. The stone that gave the human a hand, and the hand – a human. The stone that gave the instrument aim, and to the hand – malice. The stone – catalyst of what is human. It sucked the human on the surface of the beast, of the forheadless primate. The stone gave forehead to the primate, by fixating it between the horns, walked his brain through the rocky waterless wasteland of the planet, calmed its loneliness, the despair of the beginning. With the stone everything started. With the stone it will end.
Free stone, aim well, our forehead is so small, almost unnoticeable. There, from the distance of the Milky Way, through your porous eyes, you do not see even a needle in haystack, even a fly in the veins of the marble. Free stone, aim well.