Nya Magasinet, Steneby
cold. empty. full of possibibilities.
Trying to grasp the room.
Crocheting, material, movement and sound.
Shiny armour turned into strong thread of flax. Bend it at the same spot several times and it breaks. Otherwise strong.
Thin but surprisingly strong.
There used to be teeth, but not any more. Brown, soft and useless. You can mistake them for a beak as they are hanging there. Don't bite any longer. Too tired. Too weak.
No hands. No fingers. They were cut off.
No sense no feel. No strength to hold the needle. Nothing there for a while. Turmoil and confusion. Nowhere to rest.
Suddenly there was a noise. A distant voice from within. The room cold and empty. Drink the cool air. A different voice all of a sudden.
A new shape and identity.
Shiny armour into thread. Second skin, skin to shed. Turn into another being. Divide cells and turn into another structure. Flowing like the river. Flying like the wind.
Following the emergent system which is never to be fully understood.
Open borders, no borders at all. Movement through, wild and curious. Strong and weak.
Allowed to rest.
Found a nest?
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