Hours falling through veils of no sleep. Vales of no sleep? There's a body on the couch, freeze-dried coffee in the cup. That ought to be enough. To get you going, I mean.
She had dreads last time we saw her, didn't she? He wrote, deliberately, trying to omit any reference to signifiers. Doing so was a faint embrace - or so she hoped - of the early work of D.W. Winnicott.
Did I mention I'm tired? A little puffy from too much salt the day before? With no interest in gum of any stripe?
Meanwhile, in the text as it prepared itself, his beard itched and he refused to cut it for what were - look how quickly that happened - religious reasons. It's a lovely city, Montreal, but a site of personal horror, and so I avoid it like the plague. I was about to write that historically speaking one couldn't really avoid the plague, but then couldn't you, even if only by luck?
You had to get away from other bodies, was what you had to do. But that's not what I want to say.
Yesterday, walking slushy side streets, we saw a Christmas tree suspended by grace above the intersection. Where I said grace I meant hooks and wires. What I'm getting at was the idea some body had to do that thing, put it there.
A poetics emerged, driven by the premise that how how is never as interesting as what.
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