And I paint crosses. 220 crosses. 4 min 24 sec for 220 crosses. I blink. Involuntarily. Every blink 220 dead. It is impossible to paint 220 crosses in a hundredth of a second. The time they die. 220 extinguished lives. With a blink. I blink death. It takes me 4 min 24 to paint 220 crosses. Lined up in order. 4 min paint 24 crosses, just 220 are 5,808,000 dead. Without the collateral damage. Without the committee.
I glue pictures. 220 images. 1 min per image. 220 min for 220 pictures are 290,400,000 deaths. While I only give a face. I’ll write a name next to it. Birthday. Date of death. Just day and month. It’s so close together. It is not necessary to write a year. Unless it falls at the turn of the year. It doesn’t change the time required. In truth, they have no names. Nobody notes the day of their birth. Nobody cares about the day of death. It would be too expensive. There is little time. They don’t have names either. Just numbers. Distance numbers. Numbers make things out of living beings. Numbers are useful.
The accountant writes them down neatly in his bookkeeping book. Goods Receipt. Outgoing goods. Collateral damage. This is life. No, this is not life. These are means of production.
Means of production that were created. To be kept functioning, to be sorted out. He writes his numbers in his book. No blood. No scream. No pain. Numbers only. Numbers and digits too. Nothing moves life as far away as numbers. Slaves have a number. Prisoners have a number. Means of production have numbers. And the white sleeves stay clean.
I paint crosses. 100 times 220.22,000 dead. A cross for everyone. A picture for everyone. 22,000 in just one second. The accountant writes the number. 22,000. Neatly in the box provided. It has nothing to do with life. Not even with death. He writes numbers. And numbers and digits. He just writes.
Production equipment input. Transitional stage. Resources. Depending on the type of means of production, 500 grams to 50 kilos of feed. One to 80 liters of water and medication. Resources to keep the means of production running. Some drop out anyway. Prematurely. Committee. The number is noted. Some are sorted out. Not suitable for production. You still breathe, even on the garbage. Gracious who kills them. Accounting knows no mercy. Only pay. Buzz. Differences.
Unnecessary means of production unnecessarily devour resources. It costs. Euro for euro. Cent for Cent. Added up. There must be something left over. To keep producing. Wages have to be paid. To those who have contact. With suffering, misery and death. It’s your job. Nothing else. They separate. Murder. Cut up. Packing. Nothing more can be seen of the blood. Not hearing the screams.
Clean and inconspicuous like the numbers. On shelves. In the shopping basket. In the pan. On the feet. On the clothes. For enjoyment. For the beauty. For the dress code.
And the accountant writes undeterred. Sometimes the scrap is high. Then he complains. Not because of life. Because of the expenses. He’s just the accountant. Executioners are different. Consumers are different.
And I paint crosses. 220 crosses. 4 min 24 sec for 220 crosses. I blink. Involuntarily. Every blink 220 dead.