If we are monsters, we are territories, we are narratives in constant movement and construction. If we are monsters, we weave relationships, we confront, we dissolve, we destroy and we create. If we are monsters, we play to live, we play to die, we play to disguise ourselves every day as a different piece of land. If I am a monster, I am made of wool, I have curved horns, plushy hands, houses on my back, tears rain from my tail, and in my belly I keep seeds that my grandmother gave me.

Come, join my voice with your wise stories, your ancient pains, your voices drums

Is the daily and unusual source of power located in the territory.

The orange wind

The feathered serpent

Language magic territory

We imprison or take care among the letters to the numen protector of the places, hidden there in the most wooded south

Let us bury this corn seed in the navel of mother Africa so that it may rot in her bosom and be reborn in the blood of America

May the landscape does not forget who it is

May the territory does not lose its own language

Let's tie a knot where my ear can hear their voices:

In the fall of the leaves, in the swift shadow of the birds, in the light that does not get wet, in the breath of the seed, in the oven of the earth.

Let us conjure the ancient gods

"Listen to my tale, history of yesterday, roads of return not yet walked, forgotten stories of the future, future stories of the past, it is the unborn echo of tomorrow without beginning."

I know this verbiage is apparently disorganized

Let's go with the open wound of our smile

Where can one rebel if not in the imagination?

When monsters meet others, their languages collide, explode and new meanings nestle in the air. We inhabit multiple temporalities in the encounter with others because our bodies are sensitive matter: in the encounter with others, in our exchange of our own sounds, we contaminate the throats of others, making possible the gestation of the germs of the future. I am no longer I nor the others, we are possible futures.