Standing on that precipice of interruption, the layers of darkness pile up, the blood drips down, life emerges, bubbling up: I want to see it, I want to possess it. Life is inclining, the breath is laboured, the ship is inclining, a one-winged flight, an omen of death by drowning, of careering down from the sky, form decaying, the hidden coming to light
Edge, corner, margin, frontier, border, boundary of the being,
the smell of the corpse makes life stand out, stand out desperately.
The origin of Butoh is the intensity of this stance, and the trembling that is
Both the cruelty and humour
as the impossible necessity to move,
Which is branded upon the face of the precipice.
Therein lies the matrix of life.