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Section, ouverture or prologue of a larger work about phantom images and sightless staring.
About a state that surfaces when one relaxes after a long day’s work.
Something to do with the phantom-operations the mind performs without intervention from the will.
Operations one cannot control.
Memories, associations that come out of the blue and randomly regroup into something else.
A train hurtling on and on, not past landscapes, but across a white sheet of paper.


Here and there, images scattered out of context.
A Swiss woman reading numbers out loud.
A gramophone recording of a theatre organ.
Old work, fragments from the most recent pieces.
Or a few sentences from an article of that day’ s newspaper.
The trucks driving on the narrow road past the house.

And whistling.
Because a bit of thoughtless whistling is the ultimate way to do nothing, usually with the mind elsewhere.

The piece roams around a progression of 25 chords, out of which a melodic line is distilled (of 4 x 25 notes).
All this happening in the head, because I see little.

It was a dream I sometimes had as a child: driving off the landscape and the map across a silent, white paper surface further and further away. No longer trying to make sense, just observing.
And only a cow appearing now and then.
Not the mindless ruminant, but a mysterious sort of Godchild.

The little red dog running eight-figures is with the slanted man who stands in the garden day and night, at a 45 degree angle, as if frozen in a sideways fall.
Whoever was confused had to draw eights, lemniscates, to realign the unruly pathways of the mind.
The little dog isn’t confused; possibly, the man he runs around is.
It is a bright red little dog.