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The Room is the Limit 

21 September - 6 October 2019

Amanda Kyritsopoulou


My carcass is shredding, my skin flapping in the wind as it falls off of my bones, my face stretching backwards away from my eye sockets, (I am awake) This could be the most awake I have ever been. I am floating over the ground, the pressure of the vacuum has lessened -

(I am relaxed) My body feels as if it is separate, I can’t see anything other than the ground getting smaller; everything feels more agile than before. My skin is floating next to me, rippling like the lightest cotton you could imagine.


(Right now I am hovering just above the floor) I feel as if I could reach out and touch it, but I can’t. (I am bobbing up and down floating just underneath the crowded aerospace above me) An umbrella just skims the floor as a gentle breeze fills the room. The umbrella makes me feel uneasy as if it will rain sometime soon.

(I need some protective amour to shield me, I need to be wrapped, squeezed, compressed__________________compressing. Smaller. 


Gentle, gently I rise up, the wind catches my raw red body like a sail, a breeze fills my muscles, I propel skywards. The bluest blue beams through my senses, this is the most grateful I have ever felt.

I often imagined what this intrepid way of living would be like, I expect there to be a conductor, arms majestically instigating the next note, the choir only sings accordingly to my flight path, as I rise up, their voices collaborate, pulsing through my thighs as I am swimming the sky. The chorus continues but it fades quieter, sheet music in wild flight, doves escape on the command of the conductor, an epic beginning to a new life

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