The writing enters the space of the other only at the moment when entry is abandoned. When the desire to enter into is renounced, an opening appears in the space of that desire's absence. And it is into this space that the other flows. As if invited, it moves into you, moving your writing. Hence the law "I cannot penetrate." And this mysterious entry, occasioned by a passive receiving, you do this for another. It is a gift, given by making nothing happen. Effacing identity in the presence of what has gone before. The remembered thing, the time without time, the cuddly one. These things, they reach into you, and you with their emanations, resonating, becoming past. Renouncing, giving, emanating past and present at the appearance of writing...