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"But worlds are made with hellos and goodbyes" e.e.cummins wrote. Mourning space — written — writing— from an interior (inside). From no place. Somewhere. Here, "because here I am surrounded by the other language, because the voices are softer, because the threshold of understanding is a bit higher..." (Roubaud). A feeling of possibility grows under my ribs. Unattached to any person or thing-wanting. Wafting — a tendril fringe is a smoky movement of air. Stillness too. A lot is happening here. These cheeks (mine) burn hot from inside to out (skin). Feet soles are damp ( I am terrified). This inside is not confined to this body. Feeling can't find a foothold in logical persuasion nor tenacious sentencing. This memory is not a sequence (A B MN...XZ). I want to write the truth of sensations —the moment that happens when one hallucinates or imagines or dreams. A momentary understanding that leaves in its wake as mark(er) a shadow of knowing. The task is to write about space and mourning-morning and writing to write — mourning — day or night as if it were morning. Sadness is close, too close to be within. as if in where not out. Digital gunfire sounds from another room. without leaving a mark the frame slips easily from the window, infinitely replaceable I read in a book about reading that a twelfth century theologian named Abu Hamid Muhammad al-Ghazali established a series of rules for studying the Koran. Rule #6 was for weeping..."If you do not weep naturally, then force yourself to weep" (Manguel)