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“Monsters are fulfilled desires” (Boyan Manchev, Phaethon: Miscreants)

         Inhuman bodies are born at our limit. Bodies on the edge. Bodies on the edge of the human –where the recognizable figure of “human being” is only just emerging from the amorphous instincts, pleasures and sensitive surfaces, only to dissolve again into individual desires, skins, limbs, volumes, hollows, protrusions. Bodies guided and created by desire. Bodies shaken free of their organs and limitations.

         Desire is endless. Immersed in it, the body loses its ends.

The body of desire is a body without sight, a body confined to its tactility, a body driven by touch and friction. A body that moves as if without conscious intent, pulled by a vegetative, blind will, dragged by random surges and swirls, until it finds another body and draws it into the rhythm of touching, folding and unfolding, rubbing and opening. An eroticism that is beyond-sexual. Friction, accumulation and release of tension, of animal and infantile reflexes, of endless, internal spirals of gratification that give rise to new desire that gives rise to new gratification that gives rise to new desire…

Desire is not (only) sexual. Desire is infantile. A desire to stretch beyond your height, a desire to contract more tightly than your body allows, a desire to dissolve yourself into the air or pour yourself into the wave. Desire put into action. Desire that produces new, incorporeal, trans-corporeal and super-corporeal bodies. Bodies that are alive and dead, organic and inorganic, mechanical and biological, celestial and terrestrial, airy and fiery.

The body of desire is vast. It is only a surface. An autonomous neural network, cells free from their interdependence. It disperses, crawls over other bodies, covers them with its antipodes, swallows them, curls up into them. And sings. This is the song of desire, the body taut as a string is singing it full-throat, full-leg, full-torso.

Desire is endless.