There is the anonymous void: the white paper.

And there is the sign, in its purest appearance: black.

The paper keeps its silence.

The sign speaks. The sign is the deed. The sign signifies. The sign wounds the merciful still.

It will never recover.

At its most minimal the sign is a point. It is without direction, simultaneously beginning and ending. With its insignificance it signifies more the calm and grandeur of its surrounding nothingness then it does its own minimal presence. On the other hand, when the point encloses both beginning and ending this could well mean that it lodges the ultimate history, and appears the point not to be an irritating piece of dust on the virgin paper, but rather the ultimate non-dimensional black hole that swallowed even its self and God with it. Back to the sign. Let's carefully separate the beginning from the end and pull a trace from beginning point to the ending point, thus creating a more signifying sign: the straight line. This straight line exists in time and space as it defines a movement, and also gives direction. The phallic vertical in particular, with its climbing movement, its reaching to the heavens, reflects the dynamics of the homo erectus, his breaking away from the non-linguistical earth - lump of minerals and non-clotted juices, house of pain and desires - and his fatal yearning for higher and further in the assumption that the inert earth is a burden to him, not knowing or forgetting that this primeval ball is merely a weightless point in an anonymous colourless void. When man erected him self, he came loose from the chewing herd and became a loner, alone, lonely: 1. There is also the language sign, fossil of modern man. And when he speaks of him self, he chooses to do so with this proud straight capital I. I feel, I taste, I hear, I see, I speak. I is the axis which his worlds revolve around and is the monument for his absolute place determination. But does man know his place? Phonetics add an extra meaning to the I. The I is the eye to the world. The I's world is the eye's world from its own indisputable unique perspective. I am thinking these thoughts while waiting in a parked car. I'm looking through the rained window screen as if it was a gigabits devouring screensaver making the world belly dance, over the shiny lane, through the opened double wrought iron gate, at the bypassing traffic and at the stately, white painted, thatched roofed cottage in the rear. In spite of the rain I can observe it rather well: it grabs my attention, it exists. For the I's rushing by in their vehicles it is nothing but an amorphous stain of light and dark in which they can only suspect the building in front of me. On a scale of 1:1 the uniqueness of the I rules and the worlds seem, both in experience and in appearance, completely different. Only by increasing the distance, you may learn that it really is a, though rather chaotic, yet with absolute accuracy determinable closed system, in which getting lost seems an impossibility and, as the distance grows uniformly accelerated, the I's implode to totally exchangeable elements, at first thin verticals, then as pointless points returning to their herd, a sort of visual rustle until eventually they also resolve in the out of sight shrinking globe. And though the observer, captured in him self, firmly holds on to his size, he also knows that he is but the tiniest piece of dust, dancing on the silent echoes of the still exploding beginning point, and he smiles this momentary thought: I, now here, know where: nowhere.

Sebastiaan Poos