07.2023
Bioisms mourning over roadkills.
Zakynthos, Greece

The asphalt, dusty and shimmering, a river of progress, burned under the Zakynthian sun.
Machines, mad with acceleration, trumpeting their horns as victory over corpses.
Beside the crushed remains, the bioisms sat. Small, trembling, embryonic translucencies. They mourned next to bodies of ex-creatures, flattened into near-nothingness, bone and fur smeared into asphalt-dust, erased, each denied the dignity of decay. The bioisms mourned, shaken by hot air waves, vibrating with the refusal to forget. Around them, the speed-culture thundered triumphant. Tires over the road as an altar of the absurd.
The dead here were condemned twice: first by accident, then by neglect. Not buried, not returned to soil. Damned to metamorphose into asphalt-ghosts, to be smashed and resmashed until nothing remained but dust scattered into heat.
Progress pulverizes.
And yet the bioisms stayed. Their small, light bodies leaned toward the corpses, waiting for their own crashing atomization. Creatures of a future biology, confessing their own soon death.
To sit beside the roadkill was not rebellion, but an understanding of the indifference of speed, of termination.
In the blazing island light, they did not resurrect the dead. They did not change the rush of metal.
They transformed themselves into erasure, into dust, molecules of what once was the Big Bang.