Exact release into inexact peace, the last of your hairs standing on end on repeat, trembling but never terribly, never again terribly, as if no death in the Universe could exist.
Frequent that call as the futural you you had so often cherished from time immemorial; a finger scanned into accidents of a thousand pillowing pages; a hand throwing waves received secretly from the sun’s gazes; while the most ample reservoir of life turns too, unbecoming, gainless but plush: remanence of the imagination to come, or an invitation to love: simplest touch of time unbound, in trust of all the multiples undivided in One, that rest in the potentiality to see; or asking, in the second to last, for the next one next to you to breathe.
Moral of the story is forget it without loss, let grieve the non-return of your me. The fresh base (quantic), where every representation founders, revives continuously the belief miracle (generic) received by no one (philosophy). There is nothing to be deceived of in this world, where we’ve all died. Every other human is perfection come to face: resistance in the shiver of the never-replaceable. Nothing can prevent that taste to appreciate in us: the arrival of a shared material remorse for the lie, radiated with sympathy and forgiveness, spontaneous and without question, in no common language. Even on the sinking ship of no account, our little reason disappears from violent reach, does not span into rust, though there it confides its manifold lament. The inappropriable sending, the liaison fantastique, cautious eye to eyes invisible, breaching a stranger beloved, tugs tirelessly us through the groove of vanishing being, unfreezing all the blessings of the keep.
This you need not see for it to come: the quietude of the ultimate horizon you aren’t, uninterrupted and free.
Aug 24, 2016
in thanks to Laruelle and the Grado group