Volumes accumulated in containers placed facing each other. Lungs that have inhaled, full of air. Desires for breath concentrated on what is still unexpressed. Pathways of realization accumulate, possible exhalations. At a precise moment, the infinite condenses, the encounter, the disencounter, the distance, the proximity, the romantic, chance, Apollo and Dionysus. Everything transpires in an environment already somewhat blurred by the mist that manages to escape through the edges and cracks of the machines. Then the cannon doors begin to open, preparing them for the roar of exhalation. The room is taken over. Carried amidst the mists, links of smoke, each originating from one side of the room. Certainly, they may bump into each other, touch each other, distance themselves. They are accompanied by the certainty of disintegration. They will play a trick on conscious perception, which, from one second to the next, will transform into an illusory unconsciousness, a phantasmagoria.
