March 1

Making history is to recognize the corpses of the drowned, the numbered names that had hung there on a heap of instruments, those veiled faces dropped into ether. The changing forms of the surface. Even thought, on its prescribed and inevitable course down to its final consequence. Simple memory, but what a scare.

Come, fiction, and disappear, diluted by possibility. Artificial paradises conceal proof of a projected crime, that girl, speech full of unarmed encounter with the self. Trying the hard method to accelerate the process of thought. Under the painful compulsion to purge and reorganize the many hypotheses and deductions repeatedly in somewhat obscure contexts. That dull girl, limited to grammatical abstractions, an immigrants address in the presence of certain silences.

The future, the heaviest freight, moves on, never speaks. Returns, appalls, convicts. A morbid psychosis which reminds men of their existence, that continent trod by guilty feet due to the carelessness of the scaffold. We almost cease to fear the outside world, the glittering frontier of evidence, anything proclaimed by accident in the breathing spaces. The eyes, accosted, surrender, still full of illusions, having organized or planned the cautious surface of the years alone in front of the oven. To pieces on the stones settled in their sockets.

Behind the door, on the wall, the only trace left remains silent, shuns observation. In silence the renunciation. All flesh, all splendour to earth again, waste matter worthy of holding it. Into the shapeless mass which never cries out.