The head left to its own devices will rather drift initially like swirl, dangerously thin like tiny snake following incessantly its own tail, only to end as cloud mystically drifting above the material wasteland: a holy organ of rain. Then, of course, the body is freed from the harsh geometry of language, leaving behind the structure of meaning to roam freely through open lands devoid of color, category or cataclysm. The body last seen as it entered as a solitary match into the grand blaze of the sun. The driver in the cloud is not thought, much less a thinker, but some impersonal thrust that has squeezed the destiny of the world into some malleable configuration; directing, long before the stage was built, the playfulness of the earth. The cloud is not content to remain adrift but will seek to encounter its deepest contradiction; some immobile rigid substance allergic to all kinds of change. This encounter rarely palatable to the mind or the body unleashes a question of primordial significance. The question eclipses first with its shadow, but quickly with its consequences, the direction of the game. Soon the horizon quivers uniquely self-aware of its endless curve. Was there a body or head in this tremendous illumination, incantation or would you call it subordination? Determined to dance the body pulls on the knot of the head; the head simultaneously hunting the hunger that fuels the body. This erotic war continues, to this day, to be the kernel of life.