$60.00
In a realm where shadows stretch and time unravels, there dwelled a strange troupe—beings of sound and silence, whispering tales of decay and renewal. Among them, the **"SPYKES - Decameter Antena"** spun on two one-sided lathe picture disc LPs, their grooves shimmering with secrets of distant worlds, while a mix CD played softly—a haunting symphony of echoes that drifted like fog across the silent stage. The music was both a lullaby and a warning, echoing through the liminal space where worlds met and memories faded.
In this space, Shakespeare’s ghostly voice echoed, trembling like fingernails scraping the darkness—"What breakfast, what feast, hath lasted a million years?" The question lingered, unanswered, as nails—sharp, brittle, and ancient—became the sustenance of those eternal spirits. For a million years, fingernails had been the only nourishment, the only tokens of life in the endless void, slowly piling in heaps of silent testimony. They haunted the edges of existence, fragments of a forgotten past, shards of a broken mirror reflecting eternity.
Meanwhile, deep beneath the surface, in the shadows of the earth’s hidden heart, termites moved in silent, relentless waves. Living in underground colonies, these tiny architects feasted on the very bones of the world—wooden beams, joists, and foundations. They stumbled through cracks and crevices like ghostly miners, their tiny bodies devouring the structure from within, unaware of the cosmic symphony above. Their endless hunger was a quiet, unstoppable force—an ancient hunger that knew no mercy, no pause, no end.
Las termitas, en su oscuridad, se desplazaban sin descanso, como si cada túnel fuera un universo propio, cada madera una galaxia en descomposición. Leur invasion silencieuse se propageait à travers les fissures, dévorant tout sur leur passage, leur existence étant une métaphore de la destruction silencieuse mais imparable. In every language, they were the unseen architects of decay, the quiet destroyers of what once stood tall.
The whispering voices of the liminal realm told tales of these pests—how they entered the human world through the cracks, how they made their way to the core, to the heart of the wooden bones that held up the fragile illusion of stability. Ils prospéraient dans l'humidité et la pénombre, là où la pourriture et l'humidité nourrissaient leur faim insatiable. Por cada grieta y cada viga, había un universo de destrucción en espera, un silencio que devora lentamente la estructura desde adentro hacia afuera.
And so, in the silent theater of eternity, the music spun—**Decameter Antena** echoing through the void, fingernails as breakfast for the ages, and termites tunneling through the unseen foundations of worlds. All in the space between worlds, where the boundaries blurred and the whispers of decay and survival intertwined in an eternal dance. Un espacio donde las fronteras se difuminan y los susurros de la decadencia y la supervivencia bailan en un eterno ciclo. Ein Ort, an dem die Grenzen verschwimmen und die Flüstern von Verfall und Überleben in einem ewigen Tanz verschmelzen.
Where the grooves of the LPs hold the stories of ages past, and the silent hunger of decay continues its endless song, the universe whispers—waiting, watching, devouring.
**In dieser Welt, où tout commence et tout finit,** la musique tourne, les ongles comme festins éternels, et les termites comme gardiens silencieux de l’effondrement. Every crack, every sound, every whisper is part of the great, silent symphony—a testament to the inevitable, a story older than time itself, told in whispers and grooves, in hunger and decay.
Edition of 1, numbered.