Figured that way, somehow lovingly. Fit to be or fit, fitted out, outfitted, and struck probably, struck with a bright idea. And there are finally no images that suit it, so nothing to hold emotion, that I can feel I exist and long for later, all threadbare and long ago fallen off the loom. Words not pointing. It can be said with some gesture that can look like certainty that one is primarily lost, lost in a sort of dream, lost in an image or a structure mistaken for one's life.
Ordinary object are dream objects.
They are drawn against the dark. One puts one's hand easily through wall or air, it doesn't matter which, since one so readily becomes the other. The dark always has perfect follow through, surrounds, blurs the edges. A flower, one held aloft with a single trembling drop of dew suspended from a corner of a petal, would be a sham example of that. Not disputation, not the two of us speaking together.