The air tastes of dry marble.
The fixation of saturation is the only archive still preserving the shape of a body that has become stone so that the feather can remain its only structure of containment.
There is no retreat.
The lime has absorbed the electrical pulse, and now the wall returns a signal of fixity older than my own skin.
I keep staring at the final line of the record.
Something takes a few seconds to settle.
The sentence is missing.
For weeks it always appeared at the end.
It was impossible to reach the last page without finding it.
I have to move my neck.
It was always there.
This time it isn’t.
I scroll upward.
Then downward.
I close the file.
I open it again.
It is still gone.
Only then do I notice a new folder.
I do not remember seeing it before.
It sits beside the record.
Its name is simple.
YOU ALREADY DID.
I remain motionless for several seconds.
Then I open it.
Inside there is a single screenshot.
I recognize the lime room immediately.
I recognize the wall.
I recognize the cracks.
It takes me longer to recognize the posture.
Because it is me.
I am sitting in front of the monitor.
Reading this very file.
The screenshot is dated tomorrow.
I assume it must be an error.
Then I notice something worse.
In the lower corner of the document there is a line that does not yet exist on my screen.
A line added beyond the point I have reached.
I read it several times.
It does not change.
It says:
“You already noticed the absence.”
I keep staring at the sentence.
Then I understand that the screenshot is not trying to show the future.
It is trying to prove that I have already been here.
And for the first time I stop wondering why the sentence disappeared.
I start wondering who decided it was no longer necessary.
I have to move my neck…
