And not trained into sleep ether, for even if we were trained to the swoop we were still unprepared for the cyclone. What eventually cloned one was with itself. In the wind it buoys and furls, and the xeroxes shuffle like mice in sand. This is unrepeatable. The black bugs of prose on purpose compose themselves into alphabetical patents called by the initiates "language." The writing that comes out comes from within. It's one thing to say that language is a virus, another to inoculate oneself by investing a quantity of capital "I" in one's own investigations. To want to say something so that it means something. A nocturne to the external organs. The hand produces its own unreadability from scratch on a wet avenue of ink. The scratching itself is how it comes to sketch its premonitions. Timeless as two words. Time plus the minus. The timeless insistence on what is meant. A box of shadows in which and against which one shadowboxes. It remains aloof but loaded. As if you could train your eyes to rain along the inside.