There is of course only a limited number of things one may remember; from Geneva, as elsewhere, seven is Simon's, holds my attention, blocked out. It means nothing to the microbial soil surrounding it, or rather the symbolic disappears into invisible ecologies. I would say just so, for humans in planetary configuration or swarm, macrobial bloom leaving spoors of desolation, ruptures spread like ripples from raw and inefected wounds. If this be a sign, it is that of an unreadable and indiscernible apocalypse; what we name as slaughter passes us by, what remains unnamed is the absented signifier of our presencing. Go no farther; every number is innumerable, every integer uncounted, unaccountable, unaccounted-for.