I swept down to it unwritten in the palm of my hand. I suppose I wanted to hear something else in my inmost paper -- the paper itself, its cross-pollination. The notion of precipitation. There is this place where names vanish in the signs like half-burnt bridges that make the crossing precarious but inevitable. There is no sense prefiguring how it will go. Destination is erasable. A tourniquet of twice light. The phrase unmade is adjacent to this light. A reason lurks out there for this repetition. "If," in this case, is not about not knowing. The thing that instills itself in you is not something that you bring to the table. Decomposition. The placing of the sky in night's head. More footnotes instead of more light. Night says the opposite and through it, porously, each date is delicate enough to shed its skin like a calendar. The notion of a collision course is not enough to counter the fact of accident. Even if you close your eyes the mind's repeating rifle still stands at the ready. If not to fire at least to take aim at the target that looks back at you longingly. Water clocks inside you. I am pronoun and each instance of me is not a copy but a bud in the noise where transit coheres. Sense is a misdirection that multiplies. I made the moot point repeatedly as if I could point it out like that patch where you just read this. There will be no feeding, then no feeling. If it simply matters, then matter must matter too. I wrote it down -- when it came up it sped across the page like a language -- and signed it.