A pink plastic glove arrives, I say hello, pink plastic glove, you’ve arrived. If you’re here, it’s because someone sends you, someone who knows the price of bread and milk and other useful stuff. Someone who’s thinking of me and sends you. Someone who thinks: a dead man has been found in the sink, someone who knows what life can be like. Someone who understands what my life is now. An exceptional being. A being who didn’t go to any school. A being who thinks of me and knows that what I need is not a Bible, is not property or an electoral register or a wedding list, but a pink plastic glove. Not a signifier but a glove. It’s not a signifier but a Pink. A pink tutu on the slender, muscular legs of the Moscow ballet’s ballerina-swan. And, above all, the idea of slipping into the glove. The glove’s carapace. The soul entering the glove and the body entering the soul. If this someone knows the way out, say it. Say, for example, walk straight on and turn three hundred light years to the right, then shift to the north pole of the first magnetic magnitude, when there, go through the kitchen door, take the apron, the scourer, the mask of Santa Ana of Teloxtoc, where one can still trace the nose, parts of the mouth and jaw. And begin the ritual. Like the kings and priests of antiquity would do, you commence, watched by a vestal virgin, you commence.

Image © Dennis Schnieber