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After listening their clothes take on a certain smell. Some like to keep the sound on tape, to covet and protect it. 


Wash the bugs away, careful not to spill a crumb of food it could feed them for months. 

Be clean and be quiet.

You have to collect samples on tape, they grow into the black gnat which does not fly that well. There is also a kind of fly which looks like a moth when it is flying around.

I very clearly feel them, when they are moving and when they are not moving or perhaps when they are not present. 


It narrows to 20cm everyday and formats sufficiently. Now imagine that you are strapped with messages of the utmost importance. Certain that they are all a matter of life and death.

Messages that take hold of the separated being and supports nothing but the next immediacy. 

Musical shards act as soundtrack to happy bugs never stopping to begin again. The soundtracks folded into themselves and buzzing was inserted just out of digestible range. 


It’s absurdly detailed but I assume they are annotations of different life stages. I sprayed the contextualization he provided with bleach as they were hard to see otherwise. The small black circles stood out against the faded backdrop. 


The movement felt like a sting to me, in the cracks and under my skin a pattern formed in the thousands of feelers. I can hear the machine and sometimes a rumble that sounds like breathing tubes. 

Low frequencies like bass music from a loud car makes them angry. Rhythmic without being intermittent. The itching and scratching is caused when the sound is carried through the body. 


I understand that the bugs are involved and sometimes carry strategies for masking themselves. 


Listening to the low frequency repetition may induce relaxation and a kind of light sleep. In a sensational intoxication never stopping to begin again. Black specs are devoid of memory, meaning and strategy. At least in worms there is digestion. 


Turning in ever more tightly bound reflexive circles, a pulsating tone, getting deeper then going back around, acknowledged by members of the group and set to accelerated propulsion. 


Absurdly detailed annotations cunningly paired with innocuous descriptions of what is happening. 

Earworms burrowed into a technological noise, a pre-recorded complaint in an accepted format positions parasites within digestible range. Thousand cling with tentacular grip. 


I can hear the machine getting stuck in the rumble. I’m hearing outside myself. Rhythm accelerated by committed technology. 


I understand that bugs are involved and sometimes carry strategies for masking themselves. The sounds that are felt feel like a sting to me, insects that are felt under my skin, an invisible parasite stuck in the feelers. 

Like an ear worm with breathing tubes, acknowledging the bass music to a group with feelers. 800 separate strategies and instructional videos on masking, revealing and muting themselves. 

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