The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.
Another happy day.
But he had turned, little by little, a disturbance into words, he had made a pillow of old words, for his head.
Will night never come?
Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.
How is it that of the four Evangelists only one speaks of a thief being save. The four of them were there-or therabouts-and only one speaks of a thief being saved.
I have spoken softly, gone my ways softly, all my days, as behoves one who has nothing to say, nowhere to go, and so nothing to gain by being seen or heard.
No choice but stand. Somehow up and stand. Somehow stand. That or groan. The groan so long on its way. No. No groan. Simply pain. Simply up. A time when try how. Try see. Try say. How first it lay. Then somehow knelt. Bit by bit. Then on from there. Bit by bit. Till up at last.
From things about to disappear I turn away in time. To watch them out of sight, no, I can’t do it.