I had said that I would not look back at the previous things I had written, not because anything that I had written would have become stale over this time, but because I didn't want to be led by what I had written in the past. As if I wouldn't have been led anyway, through sheer proximity. The crooked notebook, its screws against the desk, scats a telegraphic code. The messenger codes for the delivery of the message. Music sheds itself. This is the sound of one's handwriting. The concept of writing has never been an act. It is different in kind from both attraction and indifference. Aesthetics is its wing formation. At a certain point you must let the ghosts speak for themselves so that you can speak for yourself. You haven't been taken in just by letting go. Words are certainly something. Without them it is almost impossible to be in the world. Anything's impossible. Shift happens. Eyes slot for serifs. Change is only the burden of being alone. These are the regulations without which there is nothing but control. Permanence changes over time. The idea of the end of time is timeless. Does time change? This is not equivocation but the same thing. In the beginning paradox roamed free. The keys to the kingdom of cognition. This time, time is on the outside. And we're wearing ruffled sleeves on our hearts. This much is so. So uncertain. The wastebook hisses with the golden hum of humiliation. As if you could use language without also being used by it. As if anyone would understand your nervousness. In the middle of thought there is a belly button. Sleepless to the core like an antihistamine. You love the crinkle of a script that can't be improvised unless the whole thing is a proviso. Looking back couldn't kill because you rid yourself. You see as you see. For miles and miles. Tracing the places where you wrote of things that had never been unlettered until their meanings sped off between the uneven twigs.