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So much is lost in the everyday doing. Yesterday the midst of an e-mail broke some small thing in me. Misted plastic sheeting showing a small fissure. The call creates the landing. E-mails insert pointed arrows to indicate previous utterance in a moment of refrain, says Sawako Nakayasu. I say, again with the breaking, the body. Refrain from holding what holds together.

How slow it is to body the loss. How slow it is to keep going. Can not letting (grief) pass also be a passage? ask vqueeram and Vishal Jugdeo. Yes, I say, and walk the passage from the kitchen to the door of my room, illuminated underside of the question turned fortress, turned awning away from the rain. They say, more desire than function, and I say once more for the sake of breaking, for the sake of the light in the kitchen which is also hole to the sky.

In the book about a touch you can really feel, it says to touch the pages of the book as though the paper was not paper but skin, and not just skin but that which you desire to touch. It says, go cliché it even further, make the soft threads into the you of a sleeping wildness, a caress from some past or distant longing. It says to put the paper against your face. Not just touch, feeling. And if not that, the want of it, that substrate feel of the not-yet thwarted, the pickled remembrance of the how much want, of the immeasurable overflow. The rain, falling straight to earth, asks, is it ever possible to be directionless?