Page: Empty still. To be covered with letters, as soon as you’re ready, Arial 12 Punkt, freestyle, since I am not going to call you for this, which I suppose fits the framework.
Space: A white wall. Its flat relief, some scratches carved into the surface, red and green, small holes, more or less covered with filler compound.
Imagine: a pointed tool in the hand of your choice, you walk up to the wall so closely that you can actually feel its cold core radiating on your face, as-almost-pressing-cheek-on-wall. You point / push / break the white seal, swap it for a crack, little crackling-noises, tiny little crackles coming off the wall and crumbling on the concrete floor.
You reveal: A blank space underneath a blank space. White swapped for grey, or red, or some old yellow wallpaper. All the same eventually, but whatever. (Whatever’s best for the work)
Me, sitting. You in front, sliding one card after another up to my side of the table.
Five of hearts: covered in silver, a lime green bar at the right edge.
Seven of diamonds: hippotamus, covered in a BODY OF SHIT. (Or, non-referentially pictured, a hippotamus covered in its own purest form, a ball of wet flesh.)
Ace of spades: reticulated purple.
Black rectangle: You reveal?
Black rectangle: You reveal?
Bedroom: A mattress like a canvas, covered with grey linen, bales of wool, different colored textiles - sky blue bed sheets imprinted with red and yellow flowers, fabrics whose purpose should have been to soothe a lonely child, but instead they were spread out as color on a painting, gritted by the feet of a young woman, hinting the trace of a late morning dream, or maybe a stage.
Me, zooded. You on that mattress, inviting me with merely your gaze. My breath disrupting the blank so I quit it, instead I spread out my heavy limbs, adapting to the composition, stretching a new motif between two bodies and a blanket.
You reveal: nothing really, and a conclusion: this memory which is so old it slowly fades, becomes holey, a memory whose holes will be more or less covered with details, invented or not. (Whatever’s best for you) -> A memory accidently transformed into fiction.