The friction of language.
Not leather.
Not objects.
But thought itself.
I write it this way so I can see it from the outside.
As theory.
As something that doesn’t fully involve me.
But it does.
The Marquis de Sade appears as a persistent mental structure.
Not a figure.
An insistence.
A repetition.
That’s the part I don’t say out loud.
The repetition.
I realize I don’t read these texts once.
I return.
Without a clear reason.
Or with one I don’t want to name.
And each return changes something small.
Not the text.
But how I remain inside it.
There’s an uncomfortable moment after.
When I close it.
When there are no more words.
It’s not calm.
It’s suspension.
As if the body doesn’t fully know how to return.
I observe myself at that point.
Barely moving.
Without functional reason.
And then comes the part that disturbs me most:
the idea that theory doesn’t stay in the mind.
It descends.
It mixes.
It behaves like something physical, even if it isn’t.
I shouldn’t write it like this.
It sounds too personal.
Too exposed.
But this is exactly how it feels.
As if certain concepts don’t remain thought,
but become a rhythm of attention.
And I don’t know how to explain that without exaggerating it.
So I leave it here, in short sentences.
To avoid distorting it further.
After the text there is no real ending.
Only silence.
And in that silence I notice something strange.
Not transformation.
Just a slight displacement.
As if something keeps reading without me.
Without words.
And I feel ashamed of how simple it is.
It’s not intensity.
It’s repetition.
Sustained attention.
Nothing more.
And that is what weighs.
Friction does not belong to clothing.
It belongs to the physics of contact.
It does not protect.
It regulates.
It is an intermediate surface where the body stops distinguishing between envelope and boundary.
Leather does not rub against skin.
It reorganizes it.
Each point of pressure turns the dermis into a map of minimal resistance.
There is no visible aggression.
Only gradual adaptation.
Heat does not disperse.
It redistributes.
The lime room remains stable.
It does not preserve objects.
It preserves conditions.
The air has a low, almost mineral density, as if light were passing through a substance that never fully defines itself.
On the walls, thin cracks.
They do not expand.
They hold.
As if the material had learned to stop its own fracture at the last moment.
Friction appears as a repeated phenomenon.
Leather against skin.
Skin against pressure.
Pressure against adjustment.
Nothing happens only once.
Everything insists just enough to become recognizable.
The body does not respond as a unit.
It responds as a fragmented surface.
Some zones register earlier than others.
Some take longer to integrate what is happening.
Experience is not delivered complete.
It is built through slow accumulation of micro-contacts.
There is no visible system.
Only continuity of adjustments.
Only minimal variations that never fully stabilize.
The problem is not intensity.
It is persistence.
The air smells of wet leather and lime.
Not a mixture.
A superposition.
As if two incompatible materials had decided to occupy the same volume.
The neck becomes a point of attention.
Not central.
Only persistent.
It does not demand movement.
But it makes it thinkable.
The base of the skull becomes a reference.
Not through control.
Through accumulation of focus.
Thought does not end.
It interrupts.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it I should the base of the skull a porous alabaster surface the taste of lime filling the glottis the pulsing inertia of the strap stops the record reaching absolute zero I should
