I'm
going
to
say
something
without
teaching.
If
you
learn
anything,
it
will
be
your
own
fault,
not
mine.
I'm
dreaming
I
am
dreaming
I
am
blind.
I
see
with
my
skin.
Guided
by
nose,
ears,
and
throat,
vision
is
contact.
The
sun
is
not
a
bright
light,
it
is
a
heater.
It
is
heat
and
sweat
and
thirst.
Instead
of
blinking,
I
sweat.
I
am
feeling
my
way
along
a
well-worn
path,
feeling
my
way
along
the
inside
of
a
thick
wall.
Too
easy
to
get
lost
when
it's
my
first
time
here.
I
stop
sometimes
and
listen––The
rustle
of
skirts
sway
with
the
silence.
Will
you
close
your
eyes? Will
you
dream
that
you
dream
you
are
blind? In
my
womb?
It's
a
place
to
begin.
Looking
up
you
see
a
dome.
What
is
the
name
you
call
me
with
from
inside
me?
Think.
Not
the
name
you
hear
others
calling
me
because
no
one
is
sharing
my
blood
like
you
do.
But
the
name
you
know
me
to
be.
The
name
only
you
called.
Do
you
remember?
You
said
it
before
you
had
a
voice.
You
moved
the
muscles
of
your
throat,
your
tongue,
your
lips,
and
called
me
without
making
a
sound.
=> info | Construct a last
Exhibition: The Last Performance [dot org] @ Haus Der Kulturen Der Welt