Out of nothing, in the dim electric light, came the words, as out of nothing, but do words (does anything) ever come out of nothing?
when I turn on the light
today when I turned on the light
everything seemed an ugly uncharacteristic desaturated hue
all colour remindfull of a dreary utopian past gone wrong
and the shapes and forms of every little piece of garbage
every untended niche
all too evidently brought out
today when I turned on the light
my dreams were a washed-out tone of grey
the colours latently forgotten
(no, not forgotten;
memory and hope are different functions
but both may equally
falter for a moment
during the course of so productive a Sunday)
"To go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time."
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