ARYAN KAGANOF

I.
The double is not a subject here, 
not even a face. It arrives broken, 
stammered in each image, its topology 
smeared across the surface, its organs muted, 
denied even the echo of telemorphosis.
No story unfolds—only anti-representation,
only the trembling detail of [poor image] grain.

This is not the romantic grain of cellu-void 
it scalds the double from outside in, hollows representation
into a scrape. Every image is a festering wound, 
each stilled frame a violence enacted 
against the regime of smooth surface.

II.
You stare long enough at a surface
and it becomes skin. Beneath the grain,
a breathless threat of telemorphosis
lurks. The thing once known as double
is now a constellation of pris/m/ages,
a refusal that rejects your gaze,

your r/e/p/r/e/s/e/n/ta/t/i/o/n.

What if we denied representation
altogether? Let surface
speak in tongues—an image
of decay, blood clots, maggots in grain
What if the double needs this grotesque kind of violence in order to party?

III.
Where does one place violence
when there's no plot to soften it, no representation
to make the double heroic?
Only s*u*r*f*a*c*e,
only the shuddering grain,
only this unrelenting image

The image dissolves space,
creates no room for touch,
offers no permission to enter flesh—
just flat sound
and cut-up glimpses, 
carved by camera,
each new slice 
a sharper contumely.

IV.
Who holds the camera
in this surveillance exorcism of space?
What kind of violence
replaces a screaming voice with static sound?
The mouth opens, not to speak, but to touch
the invisible wound of representation.

We collapse in representation,
our faith too long lodged in the biocamera,
but this is a post-touch scratch ‘n sniff anabolic
cinema - a collapse of striated space.
Nothing reaches. Even the unsound necrosonic
is scorched by the ghosts of genoviolence.

V.
Time sculpted with violence,
but scalpels are made of {poor image}grain,
not blood. Anti-sound
tracks the surface,
not the scream. Post-representation
is a dismemberment of hello darkness my old friend.
The flesh is not erotic.

It is not story. Not even autotune
can redeem it. Digital camera
hovers, detaches, maps the body
as grain, as image,
not as metaphor but as negative cartography.

VI.
There is no safe space—only absence makes the heart go tiktok,
folded, ungrounded, lacking flesh.
This is a cinema that erases image,
makes every gesture of touch
a mock-eye-ry. The double
vanishes into the camera.

Eventually the camera
forgets how to be a tool. In space,
it becomes an eye that fears the double,
an eye that eats its own vision
without consuming. No more seeing double
only the abstract hum of being doubled

VII.
So what is image
without story? A camera
without subject? A touch
that bruises but does not connect? Space,
then, is a myth, and so is flesh,
and so is any coherent double meaning.

The double breaks into grain,
pours out as surface,
refuses the lie of representation
and answers with more violence.
The soundtrack moans, but this necrosonic
rejects redemption ex nihilio.

VIII.
This is post-narrative—
or anti-narrative.
No plot, no touch,
no moral center to hold the double
together. This is sound
unmoored from representation. 
This is live snuff broadcasting. No journalists allowed.
We repeat, for their own safety, no journalists allowed.

Representation
was always a trap.
Now the camera
watches without certainty, without touch,
flinching from its own reflected sound,
its paralyzing gaze upon the double.

IX.
The double splinters through close-ups.
This is not montage.
This is the grain
eating away its surface,
unraveling space,
slicing flesh from flesh.

We try to name the flesh,
but we are denied access to narrative.
Only that strange image
of the hospital, the ambulances, the groaning sounds, the semblances,
and no final cut representation.
No story. No place. No camera.

X.
And yet: the camera lingers.
We see the flesh,
not as symbol, but as double.
Its unstoried violence
asks more than narrative
can answer.

What is touch
when it’s just more d.p.i. pixels?
A mouth opens—image
of panic or pleasure? Space
gives no clue.
Only the throbbing sound of do it to me one more time.

XI.
The sound echoes that mute surface.
The representation is spectral,
the double unknowable.
We ache to touch
but find only broken glass everywhere.
Only grain, only cut-up n a r r a t i v e.

This is a narrajive without verbs.
This is the camera refusing even itself.
It wants to eat flesh,
but cannot chew.
It longs for space,
but finds only image decay.

XII.
And so the image becomes prayer.
Not for God, but for the double
to become itself again.
A prayer of flesh
recalled from absence, from unsound,
from unrepresentation, from violence ad infinitum ex nihilo.

A prayer for grain to soften,
for touch to return.
For the camera
to stop slicing space
and cradle, not dissect—
this broken, vanished, blasphemed double.

 	Envoi

One razor moves across the surface,
a whisper of sound, a final grain.
The camera closes its eye. No more representation.
No flesh, no cry, no knowing space.
Only the ache of image, only the don’t stop
till you get enough... now you look in the mirror and say the word
genocide