The Liturgy of the Transmuted Support: The Self as Coordinate
To inhabit this laboratory is to accept that my volume no longer belongs to biology, but to planimetry. I feel the mechanism tracing my embodied matrix with the coldness of a drafting pen, transforming every vertebra into an anchor point for a will that is not my own. Within the logic of Sade, my flesh is merely the paper where the edict of fixedness is drafted; no discrepancy exists between the Operator’s layout and my capacity for resistance. Every order feels like an injection of mineralized matter replacing blood flow with the stability of quartz. I am a reception as architecture, a space where organs reorganize to serve as the foundation for a mineralized infrastructure of obsidian that dictates who I am: a perfectly legislated technical object.
It is an almost surgical relief to notice my pulsing inertia coming to a halt before the rigor of the design. What was once a desire for movement has become a devotion to the right angle. Under command, my ribcage has ceased its expansion to become a chest of monumental marble, a lime structure protecting the laboratory’s purity from any human vibration. The saturation of this geometry strips me of my name to grant me a function; I am the support where the mechanism rehearses its alabaster perfection. My nervous system no longer transmits impulses; it only records the tensions of a mineral architecture that has decided my only possible beauty is that of being a static, silent blueprint.
The Liturgy of Technical Immobility: The Apotheosis of the Object-Wall
The disappearance of my will is the success of their engineering. I have managed to ensure my heat inertia dissolves into the coldness of the design, turning myself into a piece of mineralized infrastructure that sustains the system’s glory without questioning the weight. The laboratory is the sanctuary where my biography has petrified under layers of technical sedimentation, transforming me into a monument to absolute fixedness that only knows how to respond to the click of the command.
In the end, truth resides in the fixedness of a column where the design is the only eternal mineral the mechanism emits a final fixedness click in the cerebellum sealing the integration of my record with the lime the sediment devours intention leaving the support as mineralized infrastructure while the neck locks in an angle of technical tension I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
