The spectral sign of imagination is superfluous and profane. It is an anti-consumerist luxury, an antidote against the poison of quantification.
It is an anti-artefact, not a psychological reflection of whatever data assigns it an author or creator. It is not a metaphor.
The material out of which this play emerges is by magic ritual and sheer chance. As the reader or viewer you are complicit in the transmission of this play.
And it is play.
The intention is not to make ‘art’ so that it becomes ‘work’ for a political or personal ideology. It is not to fulfill the purpose of an identity. In offering the ultimate, nothing needs to be qualified.
Against self-surveillance and identification, the astonishment of presence is always inconclusive.