Film Projected on a Bead of Amber
Words from then that retain the clarity of silence. Which is why speech was unnecessary. The depths of night remembered the oldest gold: hours of the least important secret, of when you begin to enclose yourself in the world that lives in closed eyes. A music that drifts from far away. A smell that travels from the deepest heart of the peach. Is autumn not memory’s most translucent fashion? Is autumn not the beginning of incurable forgetting? One glance is poured into another and from that union comes forth a new water. A color visible to our eyes only. And there, suspended, a sliver of sun lives in the dark of night. From and by that light I write: I held in my hand the fruit of the wind. And it was warm.
—Gaspar Orozco (translated by Mark Weiss)