Words toppled on top of words–to assert what? Everything forgotten? Everything started anew? Origin reiterated? I, upholding my faith in you?–

But happiness leaves no record in the observable universe. Of love there are only traces and welcome tears. A few dice thrown into a pit of unhappiness–the too-much-being of man, of too much hatred. Too much sorrow and misquotation. Too many failed escapes. And not enough confessions. Not enough desperate elation.

What keeps pushing, would keep pushing if I pushed? If I was patient here at the extremest urgency?

A tongue, abandoned in a sand castle, drying up. “I can’t account for the oceans,” said the young one to his mother. “Me too,” she silenced.

I went to close the door, I shuddered, I was late. No one arrived in my place. “I am”: vanishing mediator. How long and about whom, to harp on? When does the day come when he comes soon?

It could be a moment of prayer, an act of faith in a desert not lacking entirely in happiness, in fact hardly lacking in it at all. Writing: a memory for what was possible for it, how many connections it could make appear in a movement. The trace was doubtless, doubtless but not there, the experience of one certain doubt. These words, this discourse, not to explain a consciousness but that it flitter away. Each line is its own infinitely repeatable singular place, a space other than one, and so for the other.

No null occupancy in the staying, but at the same time no nothing belongs, we do not fill the place up with anyone. We pass through and pass away, without passing on or getting to. And yet at no point do we turn in circles. Each point is a pivot-point all its own, nothing comes before or after it; and yet it is too unstable, too wavering, too spectral not to question its “there.” What is the there of this being-there that is only a passage-point, infinitely divisible, detachable, repeatable, programmable, reproducible, while also singular at each occurrence, at each return, a micrologic of divine machinery-itinerary?

Deep in oblivion, we are operated upon by machines we belong to, but none of them belong to us; we match this with our own oblivious prayer, which we send out to the void no less mechanically.

Nothing adds up, nothing can be remembered– how many times can that be repeated? What does it mean to be said each time? Something so different no one could repeat it.

“I will try to see to it…” Imagine this word arriving unfinished to the head, silently it would seem, but making its appearance known, to haunt us with all that we ought to see to, but can’t hardly, not knowing how to see. “To see to it”: to ensure it has been done, to make sure it is taken care of, to notify the proper people, to make things clear, visible, apparent, present, known to all those involved, to oversee the progress of its accomplishment and the process of its carrying-out. Who could even begin with that here?

Question of the line, of the election of its trajectory, of any appropriation of its establishing force whatsoever. (Then again, how would one not rest there?)

Everything over-reactive, everything attractive, grabbing, everything fantastic… disintegrates in the mirror shattering, itself a fable. We believe mistakenly that the blood on the shards is our blood. We believe rightly that we are among the ones cut.

Cut off from… “seeing to it,” cut off from getting there, from organizing things correctly, to giving things the right titles or names, to making anything our own and proper. We ought to recognize “in this desert” that it all begins here where no assurance in the plan fore-thought can be attained–where night endlessly redoubles on night, without light or darkness. It could be an adventure, it could be a non-stop; or it could be full stop every way.

A string of eloquent equations, or an infinity of infinite letters?

Infant country, endless age?