Text / montage for the end times
Maelstrom. Walter Benjamin is thinking aloud. Everything is a matter of montage. The Pope is dead. Long live the Pope. On autopilot, history is spitting out phrases; the rest of the world is listening with a bated breath. Al-Qaeda is impregnated with Destiny. Twin Towers, Twin Planes. Sand, and prophecies in Latin. Grass will grow over your cities. The dead Pope is dancing. The dead are dancing with him. The end; two young people commit suicide in front of our eyes –they explode, sing, scream– so that the eye would open towards an infinite image – is it Paradise? Everything is a matter of memory. Everything is a matter of construction. Paradise is designed on architecture rice papers, on mountains of illusions; it is based on quiet genius, it is literally erected under our noses. We seek for water and the rainbow. We are invited to touch, to walk for a while inside a Paradise that was revealed after so much labor. We feel, we remember, and we burst into tears.