︎            THOMAS TAUBE



It is the dependence on each other. It is the dependence. The figure hangs off, A flabby body our common predecessor would still have said. In the ropes no, there not, actually in itself, slumped and thereby belly button and chin meet. Bagged and rolled Sometimes it is not clear where arm ends and shoulder begins. Stretching and pulling long, means to show strength and then to whom do I show this or does my likeness show me that it is strong and that it has this from the small being which sits opposite him. Infinitely intangible is the being that is composed of millions of corners and appears infinitely attackable the repetition lies in its system it shows me the own stretching. The failure is part of its identity, not only of this individual, but is part of a serial production that can be repeated incredibly often. Indefenetily often repeatable without the existence is ever questioned, for that too restless and timeless. Go on go go and then go and fire and bam bam bam and kneel and headshot whatever and then go and fire and bam bam fuck and ok stretch again so right that the muscles of the shoulder blades meet then hit and headshot whatever. The same redundancy of sequences an incessant and restless pump and push and pull back and push forward and inhale but fucking sharp man and then hold and push again and then the same redundancy of sequences and exhale and detox and recover you need to sleep listen to you and stay with you and see what's important exhale and then the tingling starts again, not even slowly it's just there so if 1 and not 0 anymore and then three screens parallel one portrait all on on you have to lean in head first forehead first dive into the thunderstorm and flicker and change everything that makes up the world and push yourself forward and always inhale and exhale even though it's like in the flow just forget who you are and stretch upwards so hard that there's a pull and your shoulders and muscles are stretching on a small scale but touching as a form very softly only and then ventilate internally a freshness then takes hold the detoxing has done the rest and was mega relaxing and good that you did that now we are back on track and headshot and disposal of fear stretches it strives forward always forward push push and you behind but actually you go ahead you see yourself only from behind above perspective so you can go through life there is distance and clarity and prudence and your back you keep yourself free you see it yes. Our figure knows that much more is connected, so shoulder blades and tendons but also particles that it inhales and exhales and that settles in for the good and then refreshes or refreshes itself also thoughts and sometimes comes a branch then if the pushing before maybe was not good if you then did not feel the figure and you then became you again and no figure but protagonist has taken the wrong branch, where no longer clear exhale push you down and then stretch you still and then fucking further man, always further man push you and let you come into

the flow in which then only the direct and immediate one and a half meters are then quite clear and simple and the figure is then there again and knows about complex relationships but can fade them


I was told that the buzzing in my ear is a noise, I do not actually hear the

buzzing in my ear, but it‘s just there. I have been told that my mother can be that buzzing.

I have been told that my mother is that buzz, that I have it, but not hear it, that it is in my head and I believe that it is in my ear, although it is not.

I was told that the buzzing is not real, just like my mother is probably no longer real, the shadow is probably no more either because probably the leaf that created that shadow is no longer there,

at least not anymore on the branch on which it hung.

I was told that it is peculiar to deform my mother‘s dead body an hour after becoming lifeless into these pictures. This buzzing is probably a tone that I can compare to communication with a human, and this communication seems to go in one direction only. Deep, it goes deep in the head, though I‘m told it comes out of my head. From the inner depths of the head.

I wonder where that is.

I wonder how I can go there.

I wonder if I want to go there. It is not so, or at least, according to those who are telling me that it is the sign of a deceased person. No, not that, but

nevertheless, there should be a connection that I either cannot understand, or do not want to understand, or I can not.

I was probably telling this buzzing about the clouds again, because when

buzzing was still a human, I also talked about clouds that are not tied to a bed in a hospital like you, that the clouds can do whatever they want, or at least it looks like that because the clouds just drift along, dissolve, reshape and move on, over us and make new shadows possible.

I wanted to cheer her up, I believe or give her some perspective or at least try to. The buzzing is loose, it’s no Oleander that blooms and pushes through the crumbling asphalt and roars and blooms, it’s nothing you could easily

recognize. The moment the flower falls down, she stops shortly and looks back at it.

I find in the material a self that dissolves and has to learn to deal with the outside. There is a gnashing of teeth that makes me think of psychosomatic symptoms that can only be understood and changed from an early biographical self. There has also been talk of a reluctance of the parts of the self in the material. This sounds like fragmentation of the self (e.g. due to life conflicts), increased fragmentation of the self (in neurotic conflict processing and symptom formation) and in the extreme like psychotic disintegration of the self.

The psychotic disintegrated self is pure anxiety. A highly sensitive psychic apparatus which, like dreamlike, no longer distinguishes between inside and outside.

Without medical-physical-chemical measures the biological correlate threatens to die: the cell, the connections (synapse) and the complex togetherness of the network.

Cathartic roar of "fuck the work-life balance".
I don't know what I thinkI don't know what I say

A fragmented, frayed self almost dreamlike walking and incoherent with stringency and reality intermingling of inside and outside The self creates its explanation about the world at every moment
The film as the fragmented self.