Weavers
Thirteen naked women sit in a circle. It is night—though it could be any hour—for in the depths of the grottoes, light holds no authority. No human vision can truly adjust to such darkness; perception there is, above all, auditory. What one hears might be a cry or a moan, interwoven with the hum of objects falling—one after another, ceaselessly—yet never striking any surface. In this way, they accumulate, and the sound produces a persistent vertigo within the women. They do nothing that might be deemed a significant action. They breathe, they spin thread, they doze from time to time.
Rivers of unreality flow beneath the bone structure, seeking one another until something like an ocean is formed. And then, when that happens, it will begin to rise and flood what remains of the world. The hyperstitional liquid is the final contamination. Water has always been the true cosmic demon—where hidden knowledges and the randomness of evolution were held in suspension. The creature that is water bore, in its structure, the forbidden diagram of time. It marked the final frontier between the gods of symmetry, who engender life, and the gods of chaos, who adore death and nothingness.
The seven women are weavers. One of them—it matters not which, for identity is forbidden in the grottoes—has just shifted her
numb legs. Any movement, however slight, is called an opening. Such rupture restarts the weaving of psychic matter. Contact with the material world must be minimal and sporadic. They fold moments, weave patterns where the physical dimensions of events are torn, prophesied, dismantled—disrupting the relationship between present and future. Recovering the rhythm of the weave is not easy. It requires contact with the void.
Water was not only a lesser god, a facilitator of life. It also served as the first mirror for the species—the surface upon which the first multiplications occurred. Black water, as demon, does not return sameness but distortion, shattering identity and equivalence. What matters in duplications is not their regularities, but their power to generate minute, infinite differences.
Within the grottoes, the world tends to fade, and the weavers can better manipulate unreality—the black water, the chaotic fragments that unravel themselves. When something from the outside arrives, the opening deepens, and the weaving of months—sometimes years—comes undone. Duration and permanence return to govern their bodies: they age, they hunger, they yearn for sex. That is why the sound of the cut—the blade undoing flesh—though it may seem trivial, even imperceptible, reaches the ears of the weavers and carries the weight of a calamity.
