Material is quintessential; it crafts building out of scrap tissues folded neatly into thousand folds and crevices carefully pondered of, and the fondle of the architects' fingertips carve milliseconds of stories and sleepless night into one blueprint. Material is soft; the familiar texture of one's cotton, silk, even corduroy silhouettes hugged by clothes of varying price ranges, the embroidery of renowned names occupying the carefully sewn pockets of a t-shirt of a generation you can't remember.
Material is material. Something of which we cannot erase the memories it carried on our everlasting epidermis; a sky of colours and paints of so many nuances it's beyond you. Material. Material. Why is it such a godforsaken creation in the hands of antichrist shrines? Why is material perhaps the softest material to date? Or why is it the roughest, thickest, even the trickiest one you can manipulate?
Why is material crafting us, organ systems of organs of tissues of cells of organelles of mitochondria... of respiration... of Shakespearean breathing and Italian love, of French fucking and Sicily birth? Of Arabian tongues and Romanian silk, of Canadian leaves and Turkish breeze? Why are we crafted out of Portuguese, African, Australian, Polish, German, Belgian, Dutch, Nordish, Danish, Swedish tears?
Jeans of hands of ebony, ivory, honey and mustard? Colours of blue and red occupying our soul? A jean which carries age, sex, race, gender, birth, art, renaissance, kissing, touching, fondling, gripping, screams, pleasure, pain, agony.
A jean which defines us.
