Dividing bedroom and living room, there is a window in my flat, a sheet of bevelled glass, quite big, to let in light. And that is written life, to look at it through that glass – too see, but also not to see, every event smeared and without detail. Vast, slow movement, backlit by indifferent white light: blurred life, life without contour, where no event is divided from any other, and nothing completes itself.
Events, now, without determinacy, bleeding into one another as the same not-happening. Eternal life, eternal non-event …
Lars Iyer's Blog 