It is here. It is two. The clock face writes too.
Of what is to writing. Of what (will) does one write.
The water, the glass cup is full here to its brim
waiting for nothing
It Is. Just as Is. The sound is to(o) still here. Not
still as in unmoving. As static is: is two at once. A
burrr like a whrrr but definitely brrr as in engine as
in mechanical but then again. It could be blood...doing
as blood does...acting for remainder reminder. This is
my a body. Demanding impossible silence: a too
rowdy demand. This desire will be met with death's
"For when I gaze until I disappear
In my own gaze, I seem to carry death." (Rilke)
Waiting, weighted (with) toward - forward nothing.
No thing at all. "Counting under the wait of ink..." (Porcaro)
thing sound s well
"Writing is a music that goes by, that trails off in part
because what remains is not notes of music, it is words." (Cixous)
the frame slips easily from the window: infinitely replaceable.