I felt like writing but not about something, not to assemble details and marshal facts, but to marshal the sea and see it come into being without the suspicion of effort -- this truly impossible ideal, to be precise. That all these other voices might thieve away along with what the void dragged in. These hours on the sly. If it were possible, then to relearn the English language by reading differently the obscure command of how to write. Things don't ever really go away, they come back like spores and breathe a gust through you that leaves no prisoners. By thinking what you see before you see, you find that what corners it and keeps it from being seen is something that you would rather not say. It relieves the unveiling of anagrams, those doubloons of inheritance. You were looking for a place to hang your hat when you should have been more concerned with where your head was, or what that head should have been thinking about. In circles, in rings. What seems like a hole in the head. The signet is like a stringer. None of your beeswax to stopper the ears. All this patience juts. Dethroning. A roughness underneath the chintz. The fault-lines of imperfect order. A vast shack. You've had it now. Seeing everything in terms of digestion. Readers digest. Take out with white out and highlight with orange fluorescence. In between the time it takes, the work gets done. Plenty of spinning, but little is spun. The spider eventually webs. To construct a way out of the paper bag is at this point a higher priority than oxygen. To jimmy the latches and zero in on the gem. It resides beside itself in the house of many examples, each finely reproduced and immediately collectible. The twitching earlobes of stress brought home like butterflies to the body of forgetfulness. Material ghosts haunt this plurality of immaterial hosts. Paragraph the parasites. The singular, shadowy haunts of the literal. You are up against it. It is them and them are us and we were off.