El Egg

The inevitable nakedness of your claustrophobia -- "A figure deep in his own imagination" -- forgetting time for the moment, writing smaller, as it were, to blur what is writ large. "The eyes he had brought back from Venice." New, almost to the point of obscurity; not obscure, but rather opaque. That is, as a comma senses its own inclusive exclusions. Whatever could be the reverse of hypocrisy. Not to read into or between the lines, but to make of thought a place (however contingently, for the purpose, not to assemble really) to make an ensemble behind stuttering french windows. Reading the calfskin to the left. You cannot write unwittingly, nor choose the paper contours of insomnia. It must flow out of what comes in to take its place; to take place, not roughly but with insight and within.



A gaze toward such lumpish blocks as moods wedded to a certain disequilibrium. These are things the calipers can't measure: the spectator with the overdraped eyes. And yet those constant omissions, feeling that you are all out of weather. As in that country where when the rain stops, the people wake up along with the animals. This is no time to be particular, and that is a constant. To scribble in the crueling pale. Still a greater next (as in interior) with tall, freezing candles like mocking chandeliers. The drift of meaning is not meant to be flagrant. The need for stories lends a fragrance which completely interrupts the notion of episodic trumpets. There are other things to smother these accommodations. And the confusions join with smoke the color of burnt watermelon, mounting the steps of consciousness at a pace which belies the notion of a quicker knowledge. Something in the subset of alarm disengages from an ornamental sea. The oblique divorce of everything known. All misty ides. Ideas -- available wherever papyrus is squelched.