– , 12 October. Dreamed of seagulls. Spiralling against the sun like figures in a zoetrope. The entire mechanism’s visible. All of a sudden it begins to come apart. Pieces fall away. Some of them break upon a rock ledge. They writhe & scuttle. The seagulls swoop down & pick them apart w/ their beaks. I realise that it’s my own reflection that they’re picking apart. Looking up at the ceiling w/ glazed eyes. A sound like the ocean reverberating in the ears. An invisible weight presses down on the chest. Forcing up the viscous fluid. The air tastes of rotted fruit. Burns in the lungs. It’s raining. The branches of a mango tree have broken the window. The dark orange flesh of the fruit, splattered on the wet floor. The boy’s standing above him now. He reaches down & takes a piece of the putrid fruit & squashes it between his hands. Large gobs of yellow matter drip onto the ground. He raises the palms of his hands & covers his face. Reaches his hands out in a gesture of offering. The horrible fruit bursting & bleeding. Dripping their yellow ooze, putrid on the putrid water. – , 17 October. The locations always appear the same & yet different. A room facing onto a courtyard. An open window. Cracked limestone scattered across the floor. It has become a dream. And when we wake from it, it’s as if nothing had moved. Except the dream itself. And beneath that, a blank screen. An image of vacancy. Febrile constellations of light reflected on water. Day. Night. A great hole in the sky. In the side of a mountain. Of the house of darkness. A great cathedral space black against the stars. The heavy scent of the estuary. Humid. Drifting up from the mangroves. A thin veil of mist & rain lightly falling. His forehead shimmers in the reflected light. His mouth, a quivering line in the middle of a pale, almost livid face. Some contrary nature is overwhelming him & his own nature is silently receding. Slowly the separate limbs of his body attain the rigidity of stone. Like some indecipherable totem keeping silent vigil over the river. Not to succumb to it. Watching attentively the ants on the dried mud of the river bank. A fallen log w/ huge orange fungi. Fan-shaped banana plants. Beyond, a line of tall, dark trees divides the flood plain. Distant fields of green maize. The sky turns yellow above the haze of the cordillera. The air pulsing w/ the noise of insects. He’s walking down into the river. The water coiling around his legs. Swelling over his thighs. Tree roots & mud beneath his feet. Eyes searching the shadows. The hiss of wind sluicing the trees. The barking of a cormorant. Batrachian nightmusic. The tide has begun to turn. Is flowing back out. Gradually the mangrove roots are exposed to air. The mud seething w/ crustacean industry. He lies down. Sinks into the riverbed. Waits for the return tide. In his mind he’s entering the river’s dream. Its renewal. Conscious only of the ebb & flow of intensities. Everything suspended in a liquid syntax. If there’re others, they’re w/out concrete form. Vague, disembodied eyes looking down at him. Their reflections on the surface. Or a hand reaches down, wrenches him upwards. The awakening w/ torch lights. Salt & insulin. Rubber hose. Funnel. Bastinado. A pair of muscular forearms. Head thrust down again into a bucket of cold, thick water. “While this type may exhibit violent attacks, the excitation is generally w/out aim or result.” A sudden storm. The air heavy & sullen w/ violence. In the distance, in the middle of the night, the cocks begin crowing. A flash of lightning fills the square of the window. A violent crack. And the low rumble of thunder echoing in the hills. The mosquito net pulses like a white veil of sleeplessness. Beside him, the boy’s expression mirrors his own. His eyes appeared bloodshot. Swollen. The flesh around them dark w/ bruises. The bottom lip swollen & cracked. He searched for some part of memory to fill in the gaps. The taste of blood in his own mouth. The raw flesh. Trying to lift himself up. It was impossible. He was spiralling. His mouth wide open & speechless. Paralysis gripping the throat. A grey haggard face loomed above him. The weight of an unseen body, rigid, shuddered against him. He closed his eyes. For how long? He heard someone standing beside the bed, wringing out a wet towel over a bucket. Winding & unwinding the dirty cloth. His skin had acquired telepathic odours of sickness & decay. Lips, scabbed & cracked. A gauze seemed to have lowered across his eyes. The tiny white squares of netting, dividing & rejoining in psychic ménageries. I’m brought back to a torture from which in vain I’ve tried to escape. The mortification of the body & what’s forced to speak through it. “A conversion into the infinite of mortality.” A dead letter. I strain my eyes against the impossibility of reading what it says. Of making it out. Of giving it a form. And still it’s beyond me. Something which destiny has addressed to the present, but which never arrives. To embody the guilty conscience. Precisely what I can’t believe in. I negate myself. If it weren’t so, I wouldn’t’ve chosen to be here. “To be capable of sacrificing innumerable beings.” No. One only. THE REST WILL KEEP AS THEY ARE. Hijos del pueblo te oprimen cadenas. Esa injusticia no debe existir. Si tu existencia es un mundo de penas. Antes que esclavo, prefiere morir. The mocking demon of intention. Time’s overflowing. The sun is moving through the sky in the wrong direction. Everything visible becomes unperceived. To emerge on an invisible terrain. The silent clenching of teeth. Blindness. Blind rage. Blind justice. Which was it to be? Duty to the Old Concealer? Envidioso. “The snakes are loose.” Uncoiling of all the old falsehoods. Self-deceptions. Looking the illusion straight in the eye. But how to relinquish the unforgiving corpse? To find the way out of myself? To say enough to this interminable struggle. Barely had it begun when it was too late. The initial action demanded its consequence. AND YOU’LL PAY, it said, & YOU’LL GO ON PAYING. The hand, raised, falls limp. The worn out prosthesis of malintent. The body, like an armature of some undeclared motive. A will beyond its own. Like a cancer. It creates & kills. A paradox that nothing can keep from unwinding through all its contradictions. Down to its final resolution. Which in its right time illuminates the whole from the beginning. Eschatology. Apocalypse. Two opposites reflecting & annihilating one another. Crossing themselves out. Reduplicating. Propagating. Life-mocking. Living on. The incest rhythm of self-negation. Of self. “A wasting vagrancy of mind & spirit.” The suffocated rationality of our fear. Asleep w/ eyes open. Face to face w/ how many others? They seem uncountable. A crowd filling the room. Occupying an impossible space. At what point does consciousness return? A mundane awareness of objects in their environment. A wall. The glowing point of a cigarette. A face. Constructing an identity on its own responsibility. I’m excavating myself through a hole in the world. Thieving among the archaeologies of this long night. The rain. The open window. The walls around the window. Insisting that they won’t dissolve in consciousness. Do I wake up now & know, w/out proof, that this does not exist? A fake. An invalid existence. Something which has failed to coincide w/ itself. A programme & nothing else. An infinite string of zeroes & ones always on the verge of cancelling each other out. Behind the screen. Where among the circuitry & transformers, mechanical demons are hunting down the fugitive appearances of truth. The sound of footsteps approaching. I look up, thinking someone’s at the door. The anaesthetic isn’t working. A mirror held to the spy hole. Two halves of the same entity. I know that I’m that man & that boy also. As if I could enclose both their beings within a transparent wall of propositions. A vitrine of observable destinies. Mutable. Perishable. Unfinished. A continuous flux of decomposition. Transformation. Disappearance. Re-appearance. In an unexpected moment of clarity I’m able to perceive my situation. It seems that nothing else matters but the sense of clear-sightedness. A room of glass & everywhere a white luminosity pervades. The impression is of a photographic image which has been over exposed & in which all the features appear to be gradations of white. Or else, in another room, a magic lantern projects an image of himself bound by ropes to the body of the dead priest. Falling through space, from a great height, a vast body of water below. He struggles to loosen himself. Useless efforts, worthy of a nightmare. Now everything in reverse. Paths run away in all directions. He feels in his pocket for the room key which’s not there. It’s raining heavily. He’s holding a broken umbrella. Water pours through a tear in one side of it. He tries to stop the rain w/ his hand but can’t. Its meaning isn’t graspable. A symptom that can’t be translated in terms of what’s known. If he isn’t to believe that he’s already dead, in other words. A phantom conjured by the other’s dream. Figure of prophesy. To kill the father & become the father. The one whose sure hand plucked me from the waters. How long ago? Memory was failing. A lifetime. Innumerable lifetimes. They were all coming together. He no longer knew which one he belonged to. He wanted none of them. No longer to be the consequence of others’ destinies. To commence in the illusion of seeing himself seeing himself. In the distorting mirror of conscience. His thoughts were as the unrehearsed gestures of an actor. An unfamiliar script punctuated by accidents, prompted by the accidental or fortuitous idea. Or one thing no longer leads to another, casting doubts over all his previous experiences. The illusion of a unified way of seeing. Of things adding up. Of a larger picture, gradually revealed. The outcome of what they call accumulated insight. Or to remain sheltered from it. Or by it. However inadequately? An umbrella no longer held up against rain, but which holds him up. A black parachute billowing above his head. The rain’s only “inside.” There, in the pixelised retina. Everything’s equivalently weightless. Anomic. White-noise hiss. The flash of teeth inside countless mouths. Each consuming others, being consumed in turn. Or else they’re speaking. All of them in concert. An amplified disturbance of grinning malice. It isn’t possible to deduce what lies behind their words. Everything seems to suspend, destroy, interrupt their meaning. As in nature, man finds only the regular laws he puts there himself. To defile what accuses him. To erase, obliterate it. And then, as though “w/out warning,” it’s dark. So dark I can’t think. A face pressed against a vinyl seat. The vinyl lubricated w/ sweat. The air’s damp. A dislocated jolting motion. Perhaps if I don’t move it will go away. Concealing the self beneath an elaborate immobility. A machine-like inertia. The body’s elevated. Tilted. Made to recline. The wrists & ankles restrained. The apparatus intervenes at every point in the body’s anatomy. A black rubber mouthpiece inserted under the facemask. An artificial respirator which assumes the function of the diaphragm. Hiss from a gas cylinder. Floating in the liquidity of the room. Surrounded by its weightless contents. You dreamt you were unconscious & forced to wake into the dream you were already in. “Y’re shaking.” A pair of hands gripping the shoulders. The eyes open. The throat. Vomiting into the mouthpiece. Suddenly a window opens above you of its own accord. Suspended in a sky of pure oxygen. Ridiculous hunchbacked figures copulate in the twilight. He recognises himself in the figure of the supplicant. A mouth, wide open, disgorges a stream of blood & semen. He floats in it like a half-formed embryo. Soon it will be time again to be born. The familiar homunculus. Plugged into the circuit of collectivised guilt. A transmission. A propagation. Integrated into the artificial intelligence. The programme runs on of its own accord. Performing all the supplementary tasks. Cause & effect. Recognising oneself or others. Repeating or not repeating. A gesture. A word. A series of coded actions. Structuring them. Processing all the data. Sensory input. For example, y’re standing on the sidewalk. The street’s crowded. You don’t confuse yrself w/ it. More precisely y’re standing in front of a building. A narrow white stucco façade. An archway leads past the caretaker’s room to a closed courtyard. “I begin w/ first one act of recognition followed by others.” A structure is emerging. Already, w/out proceeding any further, you know that there will be a series of corridors. A stairway. A darkened landing w/ a door at one end. Without being aware of it, y’ve already integrated each of these details. At the same time being integrated into them. A piece of consciousness breaks off, enters into matter. Or else a material fragment dissolves into consciousness. At what point does the one come to experience itself as the other? I’m standing in the corridor. As I approach the stairway at the far end, the stairway appears to recede. I’m already on the stairway. The stairway’s behind me. It’s far in the distance. The programme commences w/ a repetition. An interval. Memory traces converging & overlapping. Their equivalence breaks apart under the false appearance of a present. Just now, as the door begins to open. On the other side of it. Standing again in that room. It’s empty. A swarm of cockroaches spreads across the floor. On the far side of the room, a scar runs the length of the wall. The eye passes involuntarily through it. Y’re crawling across a brown patina on the inside of a long glass tube. An orange light glows at the far end. Y’re being inhaled & then exhaled, far out from the body. Beneath you the world’s disintegrating into tiny fragments, where nothing but the un-mind’s left. – , 19 October. “Each thing’s nature is manifested by its operation. The operation proper to human being is to ‘understand.’ the species for humans must be determined by that which is the source of this operation.” SUMMA THEOLOGICA, 1.76.1. Something which long ago had failed to take place. Its echo reverberates. Upsets the apparent order of things. The scene of an ancient crime. Returning in the darkened stairway in which a throat is cut. A head smashed in. An identity mutilated. How do we account for their relation? A voice on the telephone. 3:00 AM. A knock on the door. A car moves slowly through the streets. Past the late night vendors. The prostitutes. Blank intersections. Viaducts, underpasses. Headlights pierce the gaps in a ruined concrete barricade. Beyond it a gravel pit. A construction site hollowed out like a quarry. At the edge of the pit, a row of flashlights criss-cross the rubble. One of them pointed at the head of a crumpled human form. Someone was discussing the odd position of the body. It looked haphazard &yet fastidious. Like an artefact destined for a museum. A primitive fetish or a human figure hanging on a rack. Its ribcage hollow & its groin adorned w/ petals. Purple bracts & large orange flowers w/ blue tongues. A heavy scent of pollen. The petals had a velveteen touch & appeared to swell against the fingers. This strange apparition raises questions about the reliability of our description. The facts don’t concur but are themselves questionable. Transformative of the reality they reflect. Kicking the loose gravel over the quarry ledge & noticing for the first time the body of dark water at the bottom. The disturbed surface breaks apart. Redistributes its fragments. Petals of a white flower strewn across a wet pavement at night. Footsteps. The sound of somebody approaching or walking away. A figure holding a tattered bridal bouquet. The ambiguous corpse tangled in white muslin. A curtain or a veil. Projected there, through the psychic interface. He looked at himself in the mirror & the mirror cast back at him its familiar inverted image. He passed his hands over his breasts. The glands swollen & scabbed from illness. The genitals, contracted into a tight knot, barely visible between his thighs. His shoulders had narrowed. Poliomyelitic arms & legs. Turning to one side, his back had a pronounced sway. Pronounced inward curvature upward from the coccyx S-shaped to the nape of the neck. Stoop-shouldered. A cleft between the scapulars. As he observed these transformations a shadow fell across the mirror from somewhere inside it. Was there, in an adjoining room, an identical mirror placed in an identical position on the other side of that wall? Long, slender fingers brushing back hair. Heavy lips & brooding stare of dark eyes. He had the appearance of a young prostitute posing in a brothel window. Green wallpaper & red tasselled lampshades grimed w/ cigar smoke. The veins in the necks of the Dancers slowly turn blue. De-oxygenated blood pulsing in furtive afterlife. Cords drawn tighter & tighter around their necks. Bodies swaying freely below. Rigidify. Ejaculate. A blue substance flowing into the body returns, transformed into an obsidian egg. An eyeless worm descending through its human host. A dark cavern & faces leering out of it. Lives as yet unconceived & unborn. Secret migrations. Unconscious passages. Crossing deserts. Jungles. Mountains. Forced along on cracked bleeding feet. Cactus-raw. Effigies hatching from limestone. Breaking their shells of outward resemblance. Slaked lime spills from the cracks. Filling the air w/ grave scent. Vegetable or mineral immobility of the limbs. An idol made of honey & roasted maize. “While they mounted the idol all the people stood in the plaza w/ much reverence & fear.” And then the voices, chanting w/ the drums. And we know we are nearer. Tracking down the crime. Its hidden operatives. The pursuit creates its own compulsion & we accelerate. All these elements, when confronted w/ one another, invite a decision. They modify each other. Interact. Until they form an idea. Intuitively known at the outset. We pass through a narrow alley between two adobe houses. Around the corner of another. And there it is. A terrace w/ a roof. A fence-like construction around its four sides. A pole up the centre. Three drummers sit at one end. An oil lamp hanging from a rafter. In the middle of the terrace there’s a group of young men dancing. They dance as if they were marionettes tied to the drums by invisible strings of sound. They’re not dancing w/ one another. Nor are they dancing to the drums. Nor do the drums accompany them. Their movements are sound made visible. Their voices, in turn, are the transfiguration of their movements back into human sound. Or is it that the drums emanate a vibration which plays on all that it touches? The muscles of the body. The chords of the throat. The stunted trees beyond the peristyle. Stirred by the sound of the drums, a canapas tree secretes a strange liquid at the base of its branches. – , 6 September. The symptoms have become characterised by subnormal temperature. Profound prostration. Weakness & exhaustion. The condition is complicated by frequent collapses. Anaemia. Jaundice. Possible degradation of the brain. Spinal cord. Liver. Spleen. Bones. The pituitary gland. The adrenals. A smell of mangroves combined w/ a stench of crude oil. Kerosene. Caustic soda. Weeds & mud & sewage. “The sensitive fibres of the mind in a flat wilderness bounded by tormented seas.” In most cases arsphenamine cuts the disease short & prevents wasting of the limbs. It’s given w/ quinine in every case. The chill is followed by fever sweats. “To relieve the discomfort of sweating, the skin must be kept dry. Headaches are relieved by applying an ice cap. Or by phenacetin & other antipyretic drugs. Delirium is common. It’s sometimes necessary to restrain the patient. In acute cases quinine is given hypodermically. Intramuscularly. Intravenously. There are some cases which don’t respond to quinine. They’re often treated w/ large doses of arsenic given intravenously.” Grey blue light falling through the window. There are white gauze curtains. The impression that the curtains are in fact sutures coming loose from a wound. For a long time I stared at them. How many identical moments passed. Everything exactly as it seemed at that instant. The body exposed on the narrow bed. The air in the room, heavy, weighing upon both of them like some cloying hand of fate. No, the other’s crying pitifully. His sobbing fills the night. Outside it’s still raining. – , 12 October.Thursday. I don’t know if I’ll manage to set it all down on paper. The mood’s strange. Tense & exhausted. “Balanced on a razor’s edge.” Between unconsciousness & violent action. The tension between them so utterly consumes my energy that a kind of median of paralysis is achieved. I neither sleep nor move. I say to myself you must write down everything. Now. Before it’s too late. ¡YO SOY LA DESINTEGRACIÓN! The heavens open, the sky’s bathed in brilliant orange light. Who is the black-winged creature that floats towards the edge of the page? Its blackened, twisted legs, like some insinuating spite. A persistent movement at the edge of vision. From the corner of the eye, darkness flutters. A vibration. Something shifting against the light. Intermittent sound of voices from outside. Traffic sounds. The ticking of a clock. Punctuating the audible. He pushes the notebook aside. The writing has become repetitive. Unavailing. The fevered mind seeks a way out of this bondage. A single stroke of the pen. Something which would cut through the layers of paralysed outer flesh. He reaches down beside the chair. Unbuckles the canvas satchel. A small dark rectangle of wax paper. Once administered, the substance takes effect almost immediately. Everything focused on a single point of concentration. Far away now. Turning the key in the ignition. The car lurches reluctantly into motion. Stalls. Starts again. Gradually the streetlights recede. Winding upwards on a gravel road. Tyres failing constantly to retain traction. Slipping backwards into delirium. All the gauges are broken. There’s nothing to measure time or distance by. Arriving by accident at some unidentified transit point. Forms linger on the roadside, watching in the shadows. There was the mutter of thunder. The first drops of rain began falling on the corrugated iron huts. We cross some invisible threshold, which advanced towards us. And on the other side of it. A landscape in retreat. A rearview mirror. A road vanishing beyond the headlights. White lines razored into the iris. An expanse of black shudders past on either side. Yellow eyes. Roadkill. A faltering brake. The smell of petrol. At the border crossing, the swollen waters of the river. Foaming. Yellow brown. It’s the same river. Overflowing its banks. Drawing everything into its inexorable current. The air thick w/ insects. A white form w/ a glinting head rises above the shifting mass. You seem to gather together whatever suspends you. Whatever moves you. Movements which contain, not a precise purposefulness, but potential meanings & sensations. Movements which retain part of their mystery. Like bridges built over unfathomed waters. A mirror on the head of an enchanted crane. In broad daylight, the reflection of a sky filled w/ stars. A sun in the middle of the night. The one neither cancels nor conceals the other. Water. Wood. Fire. Metal. Earth. The solemn travestida recites them in order. The sacrificial odes. AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA DOMINUS TECUM. Black. Azure. Red. White. Yellow. VIRGO SERENA PIA MUNDA ET IMMACULATA. In the name of the father. The son. The anal phallic. The knife is the wound. Alien in yr body. An axis of transformation. MURDER, she says, IS AN EXCHANGE OF SEXES. And what else? I, the mute storm, the stone lintel. Who shall deliver me from this body w/out death? Two bodies in the abject embrace of love-hatred. Like Tepeu & Gucumatz, they came together in the darkness. In the darkness their thoughts & words were wedded. And as they spoke, they realised that when the dawn came, others must appear. The spectacle of witness. “To look upon their crimes.” – , 4 September. Attempting, by means of appropriate exercises, to arrive at a clear understanding of the body’s mechanisms (motor capacities). Wanting to make oneself as available as possible. Becoming disarticulated. Dissolved. Opened out. Immobilised. Inhabited. A mere flicker of consciousness. The other, in close attendance. Attentive to these strange actions. Which will someday, through the process of repetition & refinement, become familiar. To convey the impression of an outer ego. Approaching it from different perspectives. Different points of reference. Like an anatomical problem. Fitting all the pieces back together after painstakingly disassembling them. The whole exceeding the sum. An element’s missing. The contact of the body w/ its environment. But also its image. As though you were inside it & outside at the same time. As if to say, I SEE MY OWN ACTIONS. I PERCEIVE MYSELF. I can only note what I’m doing, w/out any effective control over it & w/ no specific intention involved. By means of a series of mirrors it would be possible to create this impression among the spectators themselves. This is coupled w/ the necessity of taking account of the multiplicity of viewpoints among the audience. According, for example, to whether they’re sitting on the left or on the right hand side of the theatre. Above the stage or level w/ it. Allowing them, as always in the theatre, to see things differently. The illusion of moonlight through a frosted glass door. An antique clock. Its pendulum motionless in the blue half-light. A glass vase w/ bird of paradise. On the walls, large framed black&white photographs. At the end of an ordinary afternoon the character feels gradually haunted by an unusual, or even disquieting presence. It’s something lurking just behind his back. Or hanging somewhere above him. Groaning beneath the soles of his shoes. The displaced laws of gravitation. An impetus incredibly remote yet palpable in the body itself. Gestures that’ve become a network of captors. A web of anxiety. Malaise. Fear. All those insects one would like to do away w/. And what they represent. Some alien intelligence invading the senses. Infecting. Parasitic. Secretly invading & consuming. To survive we must learn their alphabet. Their rules & their permissions. Be able to utter, clearly yet enigmatically, the sentence that’ll speak the “truth.” The one, like a hologram, that’ll testify for the whole & for the part. Ad infinitum. The self creating its selves. Its bastards. Imitating god. Coveting him. In whom they act out their criminal intent. Their birthright. – , 2 September. A temporary stage set up in the Alameda. Two pantomime figures in grotesque masks. The scenario is familiar. LA HISTORIA VERDADERA. Nevertheless, an element of mystery & surprise pervades the unfolding of events. Each figure responds to the other’s movements. Shadowing it. Anticipating. They’re obviously acting in terms of each other. But they don’t look at each other. A gap which allows us to introduce ourselves into the suggested drama. Vicariously. Re-creating it through our own gaze. Exchanging the one for the other. Protagonist. Antagonist. Things rooted deep within us, of which we are only dimly aware. To enter such obscure channels, of which we know so little, & which stealthily devour us. A more or less systematised delusion. To protect against the unknown. To kill a supposed enemy. The taste of raw meat. Night vision. A ghost prowls through the dark on all fours, its incisors protruding. The victim shits himself. Muy sucio. Naked w/ animal masks the spectators join in the game. A Judas-figure running through the square, wailing & clutching a bloodied anus. He’s dragged to the front of the proscenium, which represents the temple steps. From a large earthenware bowl they draw out long strings of animal intestine. With this they bind the victim’s hands & feet. (The narrative breaks off. It’d already broken off countless times. A ritualistic parody of itself. Death-by-resurrection. AS IN THE BEGINNING. The eye of an ill-conceived god staring down from a void. A face, inexpressive as a storefront mannequin. Could belong to anyone.) – , 10 September. The scene takes place in an interview room. The walls are bare. There’s a table in the middle of the room. Several chairs arranged around it. A microphone suspended from the ceiling. A surveillance camera. As time went by, the camera’s constant presence started to challenge us. To make us want the image it “perceived” to have its own autonomy. To be filled w/ movements that would be at its own service. This inclination became steadily stronger, but our wish was tempered by the fact that our private reality & the reality represented on the screen are mutually contradictory. They could only fully co-exist in denial of each other. The absence of any moral substance. In fact, no certitude.
Louis Armand is the author of THE COMBINATIONS (Equus, 2016), THE GARDEN (11:11, 2020) & VAMPYR: A CHRONICLE OF REVENGE (Alienist, 2020). He lives in Prague. www.louis-armand.com
minor literature[s] 