Tuesday, March 1, 2022

29

A biography of longing—of you—the ripple in an otherwise flat surface, a crease turned over on itself until something is broken, lips parted to speak a single sound. You: an opening in thought which falls and falls—but towards what? You: a reach away from an expanse of white, or across one, wings folding/unfolding. You: an address, a letter, a direction or destination however vague or imagined. Envelopes are torn open and pasted together, paper is cut and woven from sixteen different moments, arranged until each resonates, somehow, with the same sound. Fog makes itself out of seemingly nothing, writes a body into existence only to send it off. “Writing goes out into non-existence,” says McKenzie Wark. “To the wind.”

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63

It was a wave all along. It was a wave all along. It was repeated, your breaking, the you in the otherwise of the morning in the thick of th...