C- Guay zoo, peel me a pain about the zyrgum.
H- Guay, wet to you tont to go?
C- Well, has his liquid woofy dead, bright?
H- It’s liquid put it ain’t hand-read percent mictic, I mean, you Truman can’t wook into a rest aura, rule appoint and start buffin’ wey wey. They vanna you to smoking your humor zyrgum designed dead places.
C- Ant nose are the zyrgums?
Two figures speak in a language that belongs only to them, in a space-time that eludes us. They mix and interweave remnants of words and reminiscences of English and move forward in their conversation according to established terms of dialogue. We recognize attitudes, words, intonations, but the understanding is constantly blurred.
They use their hands to connect, to dialogue, to create meaning: these are hand-objects, hand-masks, hand-prostheses that awaken and sculpt the imagination on their way. The languor and the delicacy of this pantomimic gesture encourage the appearance of the fantastic.
In a dadaist impetus, Stand still you ever-moving spheres of heaven unrolls a long white linoleum, minimalist microcosm of imagination in motion. Visual and sound poem charged with surreal spurts, the piece brings into play the possibilities of imagination.
