The fugue is huge. Back and froth across the recent strings. Each variation accrues in the recidivism of the few. The law is the flaw. Its past tense flew. Words of prey are loners when their wings give out. Every notch in my ownness is scored by a compacted bit of information that when struck sounds like a harpsichord. Concentration is the ability to remain unfocused in the onslaught of perception. Everything that imposes itself on us opposes us. The invariant in this system is the horizon; the hoarded oracle of infinite flatness. When you come up against it, you come up against yourself. What seems paradoxical is only what allows what seems to appear and then vanish into the words through which a sentence is preserved. The fugue is huge but still the few is not loss. Huge, hewn, sewn and seen: these are the acts of Los. All is not. This piece of paper: not seen, not being seen, not seeing.