ΡΞЯΡΞTUΛL.FΛLL: TΞЯMIИUЅ.ИUИQUΛM

TΞЯMIИUЅ.ИUИQUΛM

The end that never arrives.

The figure has come close. Closer than in the other three. The face fills the frame now, almost recognisable, almost present. The body has descended into the position where impact should be imminent. The green surrounds it like ground rising up to meet what is coming down. The blue bands above and around read as horizon, as water, as the last surface before the surface.

And still nothing lands.

The face is in shadow. The features are not resolved. The figure has fallen close enough to be seen but not close enough to be known. This is the limit of the fall: the moment just before, held forever. The end has been promised by every motion of the body since ΡΞЯΡΞTΥΛ began, and the promise is not kept. The terminus is named so it can refuse to arrive.

The green is the most insistent presence in the frame. Not corruption now. Not decay. The colour of what the body is supposed to become. The fall has been descending toward this green since the beginning, and the green has been waiting, and the meeting does not happen. The body falls into the colour of its own ending and the ending recedes.

TΞЯMIИUЅ.ИUИQUΛM is the proof of the thesis. The end exists. The end is named. The end is visible. The end is never reached.

This is the gap between what I know and what I feel, rendered as a single sustained image. The end is real. The fall is real. The arrival is not.