January 26

The usual delirium of the world, forever, at random and by moonlight.

Views of life established on a certain street on the outskirts. Entering the sunlit room in the morning. There is another sunshine, something quieter than sleep, easy in the solitude to articulate as imminent. Silent, without violence. A succinct expression of the unbridgeable distance around a segment of language. Sea air, sunshine and patience, unconscious human agency sweeping in a wide circle on the wide earth. All velvet and truth this morning. (The extraordinary altruism of the elite subject.)

Some unspeakable dweller on the threshold. Willing to believe in anything.

The light haunted. A violin in this dark shed.

Bells also in the village, on this morning which is a festival morning. A hundred drums and shouts. The distant strains of triumph. The weight of definition can turn to cold yet the spirits do not wander far, walking naked in the snow, provoked by signs. Near each other, for suffering, upon the paths they trace in acid vapours. Incapable of rest, inconceivable, their trajectory written on their faces by time and its massacres, its riddle and its truth, secretly animated, penetrating the world, situated in bodies, the gibbet, the physical locus of a difficult but essential liberty. The animal in man no longer with any recourse, no word, no stubborn device. No escape from the vapour.

The lodging we wanted, as we could refuse to rise from our beds. Rid of the burden.

Apathy just at the moment. That my voice were gone for good.

(or better paid and more artistic)