“You are no longer here, and we’ll have to agree: that is a release. Dance. Get as far away from yourself as possible. Dissolve. Escape into that sphere. Do not remember, do not write—let the wooden frame on the funeral pyre catch well. The stairs to the torment, between the ropes: that is your voice. Which is no longer yours, barely colored now, without curve. One foot here, one eye there. No one listens. No one sows. There is no possession. The audience has contracted—reduced to the size of a chain.A chain that crucifies the listener, painfully, in waiting—across every moment of their earthly life. Ah, perhaps it’s the pedals. Perhaps the speakers. Perhaps it’s springtime. You. You—yes, you: the fog, the mist of the electric melody.‘Remember to rejoice until the day comes to board the earth… the earth that loves silence.” Text by Héctor Arnau