Death is temporary. But it always ends.
We play because we are Necrolovers. .permadeath scum
We write, we paint, we film, we translate,
we are all led closer to the crypt. To start .permadeath detours
again. Back at the beginning. Because .permadeath starts at 0 and resets.
any piece of art is a fatal labyrinth. We weave .permadeath says scum is inevitable,
through the hedgemaze, but it leads to the genre is inevitable,
charnel ground. We as artists and writers too much is inevitable.
have the permanent drive toward death.
We try and try again. Permadeath. .permadeath is too much.
Looping through the life of an artwork,
knowing it will end, knowing we will begin
again. Are we always in mourning? The film
.too little is too much,
too much is too little.
snaps on the reel. Our character resets. The
book is printed and shelved. We walk on this
hallowed ground with firm steps.
.permadeath overflows, says statistical memory is deleted.
.permadeath retrieves from the depths its impossible memories.
.permadeath seeks rewards beyond its corporeal trappings which it sheds again and again
.permadeath sheds until only the infinite remains
.permadeath sheds and its shed skin becomes sentient
.permadeath invites others and interlopers along the same detours
We remember all that is buried here. We need to
bring back life. Again and again. We want to
survive the void. We become grave robbers,
snatching bodies to make them dance. We
become mediums scratching at the séance
table, idiots translating/transversing/traversing
unknown passages, toxic radiation seeping through
the burial ground. We chant our spells. We possess
the body. We are the eye that follows.