the day said nothing in my arms

punctuated silence: the urgent commas of passing freight (which seem louder than usual–are the goods larger, or does sound carry further in the february heat?), the definite full-stop of an unspecified scream from the street, hyphens of conversation (they get closer to my bed), an open bracket (i am, of course, waiting for something as usual, like ellipses, as these are the thoughts i cannot rid).

for a moment, a mistaken interruption, the day must be reinforced with communication, but it eases its way in, an exchange, a duty. i amble into another fatigue though, the drag of unsubstantiated processes. there are things to be written.

i know of these things now. i saw them whilst reading kafka. it is ideas for the novel, the novel that we do not talk about, the not-novel, the anything but. it must not know of its own intentions, of its forecoming and pre-influence. it is the beyond, the movement-that-is-future, but given half a chance it will fill the space it tears with anomalies and reversals, denial and self-rejection. it has been said once and will repeat to fade (although nothing disappears), stating over and over that self-awareness is both death and beauty.


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