The ground shook violently.
The framework began to crack.

I was there when the walls came down.

In the iron oxide and silica dust,
existed my authentic moment.

In this rustic village, in the province of Pallasca,
which tumbling wall am I most concerned with?

I created a reality based on aspirations for wealth,
yet they only truly existed as desires.

Phantoms passed down from those ancestors,
and projected on the most inherent inner walls.

The aftershocks lasted for days

Bottles flew off the shelves like birds
The walls opened up, then closed.
Then opened and closed again.
Then the ceiling caved in
and the house became porous.

The downpour lasted for days

The foundation softened.
Sugar turned into water
Paper money congealed,
It dissolved between our fingertips
as we tore off tiny bits of pulp.

Todo se puso a masa.

In this process of ruin,
the phantoms disappeared.

There was no way to make a living
amongst the shards of dissolving clay.

So we left it all behind.
In search of a new manufactured reality.