54.
The Story Is No Simple Math
We begin in a halfway day. The year is minor since time has left me half-aware. The moment of this undertaking is unclear. There are mirrors here. And ants and dragonflies and some flowers, a small wind and sugar—four pounds—and trousers. There is a kitchen without a working spatula. A baby cries for a moment. The voice of someone older can be heard, if you are not too busy with your own occupations. Your lost remembrances. Every other sentence hides the one that came before it so that all silence becomes the material of this account. There are a few more things to note. The hand writing this, for example. The handwriting. The borders between the paragraphs are psychic, and physical. I will have told you nothing by the time we are through, so what else to say.
What else. What else to say. Ah!
The voice speaking has a nature. The nature of the voice is a wasteland. Wild, let us say. Wild, and inhibited. The product of punctuation and a new observation—a new abbreviation means that the number of the subject determines the number of the words that intervene on the verbs. What are we doing here? Why have you come? Neither of us is comfortable in any long appositive summary of our lives, yet here we are taking possession of our things. They number, as you will see. We give dirt to the name of streets, we signal the sign for lampposts along this place of trees; a colon may introduce us but not our quotations or else we may never arrive.
The story that does not obey itself produces another mark of authority. Can you tell me, sanely with authority, what proliferations, perforations such a story might invite in its targets? Does a story have a target? Who reads the unclassifiable mind?
Begin halfway. The year is minor since time abandoned here. There are mirrors here. There is a kitchen without a working spatula. A baby cries for a brief moment. Your lost remembrances. There are a few more things to note. The handwriting. I will have told you nothing by the time we are through, so what else to say.
What else. Ah!
The nature of the voice is a wilderness. Wild, and repressed. What are we doing here? Neither of us is comfortable in a long appositive summary of our lives, yet here we are taking possession of our things. We give dirt to the name of streets, we signal for lampposts along this place of trees; a colon may introduce us, but not our quotations, or else we may never arrive.
Can you tell me, sanely with authority, what proliferations, perforations such a story might invite in its targets? Who reads the unclassifiable mind?
Let begin a halfway day. There are mirrors here. A baby cries for a moment. There are a few more things to note. I will have told you nothing by the time we are through, so what else is there to say.
What are we doing here, where every other sentence hides the one that came before it, so that language becomes the material of this account? We give squalor to the name of streets; we signal the lampposts in this place of trees. A colon may introduce us but not our quotations or else we may never arrive.
Halfway, begin. A baby cries for a moment. I will have told you nothing by the time we are through, so what else to say.
We give filth to the name of streets, we sign lampposts along this place of trees—a colon may introduce us but not our quotations or else we may never arrive.
Let us begin. I will have told you nothing by the time we are through, so what else to say.
The day is halfway. The moment of this undertaking is unclear. Unless ants and dragonflies and some flowers, a small wind and sugar—four pounds—and trousers. A baby cries for a moment. Your lost remembrances. There are a few more things to note. The hand writing this, for example.
What else.
The nature of the voice is a wasteland. Wild, and inhibited. The product of punctuation and a new observation—a new abbreviation means that the number of the subject determines the number of the words that intervene on the verbs.
Why have you come? We give filth to the name of streets, we signal the signs for lampposts along this place of trees; a colon may introduce us but not our quotations or else we may never arrive.
The story that does not obey itself produces another mark of authority. Can you tell me, sanely with authority, what proliferations, perforations such a story might invite in its targets? Who reads the unclassifiable mind?
The day is halfway so let us begin. There are mirrors here in the year that has become minor since time abandoned us. There are ants and dragonflies and some flowers, a small wind and sugar—four pounds—and trousers inside this kitchen without a working spatula so the moment of this undertaking is unclear. A baby cries for a moment in the voice of someone older, who, like you, is not too busy with other occupations. Your lost remembrances hide in every other sentence, which hides the one that came before it so that language becomes the material of this account. There are a few more things to note, such as the hand writing this, for example. And the handwriting making borders between the paragraphs, which are psychic and also physical. I will have told you nothing by the time we are through, so what else to say.
Ah!
The voice speaking has a nature such as the nature of sound in a wilderness, or a cave underwater, the voice has a wilderness. Wild, let us say wild and mean wild, and also repressed. The product of punctuation and a new observation—a new abbreviation means that the number of the subject determines the number of the words that intervene on the verbs, so let me ask us bluntly, What are we doing here? Why have you come if neither of us is comfortable in any long appositive summary of our lives, if here we are only taking possession of our things? The number you see is how we give squalor to the name of streets, how we signal the lampposts along this place of trees where a colon may introduce us but not our quotations or else we may never arrive.
The story that does not obey itself produces another mark of authority, so when will you tell me, sanely with authority, what abundances, what rips such a story; who might invite its targets? Does a story have a target if we know nothing of who can read the unclassifiable? Would you mind?