AVRAL - El Goce del Silencio (Trilogía I)

by Incubico Sonoro

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Tres historias. Tres sufrimientos.
Los números como un signo de dolor y escalofríos.
El Goce. El Atroz. El Fuego.

AVRAL crea paisajes sonoros sombríos y enigmáticos para estas historias cortas recitadas por Diego Arandojo.
La cotidianidad se aliena; se vuelve extraña y punzante.
Así, mediante texto y sonido, el Proceso Incubista se desata.
Como resultado emerge un trabajo que perturba y conduce a un área fuera de la realidad.
Un lugar donde el espejo roto sangra reflejos ausentes y geométricos.



Three stories. Three sufferings.
The numbers as a sign of pain and shivering.
The Enjoyment. The Heinous One. The Fire.

AVRAL creates grim and enigmatic soundscapes for these short stories recitated by Diego Arandojo.
Everyday life is alienated; It becomes strange and stabbing.
Thus, through text and sound, the Incubist Process is unleashed.
As a result it emerges a work that disturbs and leads to an area outside of reality.
A place where the broken mirror bleeds missing and geometric reflections.


released August 2, 2019


all rights reserved



Incubico Sonoro Buenos Aires, Argentina

INCUBICO SONORO is the sound-sculpting section of INCUBISMO.

INCUBISMO is an aesthetic, philosophical and cultural avant-garde collective born on 2006 in Buenos Aires.
It is focused on symbolic, archetypical, surreal and occult matters that lurk since ever on the human phenomenon: in body, mind, soul and spirit. INCUBISMO radically expresses itself via visuals, sounds and literature.
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Track Name: 12 - 65 / El Goce
12 - 65 / El Goce


They were opposites on everything.

12 worked in a small, suffocating office.

65 was self-employed and cosmetics saleswoman.

They were opposites but they coincided in something: a morbid pleasure, an unachievable utopia. They both dreamed about stabbing each other.

They wanted to watch themselves bleed, but the Law forbade it. The taboo eaten by politicians and spiritual leaders. The Taboo that burns the criminals’ imagination.

The anguish grew. It was the covert need. 65 and 12 met in a pub to chat. The theme -the axis of conversation- was always the same: to imagine what it would be like feeling the blade entering their bodies... the warm blood flowing through the wound...

It was just a matter of time.

The first to fail was 12. Her job performance became ruinous. Her mind was deviated, occupied by her daydream.

65 also staggered: she lost many clients. Her tax debts grew. She didn’t pay the bills and saw them piling up.

Very soon the two friends realized that they had to fulfil what they so longed for: to leave the Rule of Law, the supposed irrational crime... The only thing that mattered was to CONSUMATE THE DESIRE.

They prepared themselves. They waited for the snow of winter. The white snowflakes. The tears of the skies.

They chose the day, it had to be the sum of their names, that is 77.

On the seventh day of the seventh month, they waited for the night to fall. Then they took off their clothes. Naked, facing each other, they knelt.

12 lifted a knife. It was beautiful, just bought. Its blade shone thanks to the candles they placed in the room.

SHE STABBED HER FRIEND. Of a swift, precise thrust. 65 bled. In her face there was happiness, ecstasy!

"More... another one" begged her friend. 12 did not hesitate, held the knife firmly and proceeded to stab again at 65.

The floor filled with red liquid, while the friends groaned loudly, enjoying every second of the act.

It didn't matter what would happen when dawn enlighted that room.

All that mattered was pleasure. Fantasy became true.

Beyond... an indefinable Kingdom.
Track Name: 24 - 14 / El Atroz
24 - 14 / El Atroz


Once upon a time there were two sisters. Or something like that.

Maybe there was never a “once”. Maybe it was always like that: two sisters, twins, but with a curiosity: on their necks were two numbers tattooed. One on “24”, and the other on “14”.

In the midst of these young women was the father. The manager. The one who brought them into the world. The one who educated them intellectually. The atrocious one.

The sisters lived in a giant house. A mansion of the poor. There, the father visited them every night. He read newspapers to them.

In the world there is no solitude greater than madness. So said the Poet.

They called her father “the atrocious one” because he beated them. Yes. He was a man who spoke through his fists.

Both 24 and 14 had been thinking about suicide. But they gave up. They preferred to wait for the great moment, for that dream that always haunted their heads: the natural death of their father.

They prayed for syncopations. For strokes. For terminal illnesses. Anything that would take the father's breath away.

On a stormy night, during the winter, the giant house filled with water. Much of the living room and kitchen was flooded. Everything smelled of moss.

Suddenly they knew. They looked at each other. They shared the same longing.

In that evening of water, of liters and liters of heavenly fury, they deceived the atrocious one. They made him leave his room. They got him to descend.


On the next day, 24 and 14 reached a new level of happiness: that of contemplating their former father, now turned into a dry cake of blue mass; pale.
Track Name: 61 - 13 / El Fuego
61 - 13 / El Fuego


They received invitations to a party.

Everyone came punctually. It was a perfect evening. In a perfect residence.

There was exquisite wine. Tasty food. And fire. A lot of fire. Games to delight all the senses. Even the lowest desires.

Very soon alcohol did its job. The guests just relaxed. They approached each other. There were signs of affection. Friction. Caresses. Kisses.

Suddenly everything went dark. No electricity. No music. No noises. The guests dressed up in silence.

"Let's get out of here," said a beautiful young woman with fleshy lips.

"The party is over, friends," said a half-naked old man.


Something happened. Something so powerful that none could have foreseen it.

Flames erupted from the walls, from the floor, from the furniture. Fire everywhere. Fire that caught everyone present.

They shrieked. They kicked trying to escape from the residence.

From a secret place He observed everything. He or She, it’s certainly not known, because it lacks a certain sex.

He-She appreciated how each of the guests was charred. The embers ate everything in their path. They spared no one's life.

When the last dying cry fell silent, He-She entered the great living room of the house. He-She dodged the smoking corpses. He-She was excited. His-Her blood was warm. Very hot.

He-She chose an armchair and sat down.

"Happy birthday to me," he-she muttered, clapping.

The echo of applause was repeated throughout the other areas of the residence, until it became extinct.

The night was still perfect.

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