Matrix of contiguities, limbs and eyes taking form, stiffening, crowded out of emptiness, where anything comes from. Cancer is eating at a friend. I don't know which one. I will soon enough. Polar and blind.
Silence is the future.
Once Silence came from the Woods of Future and sat down and began to talk and so on. It was his heart in the words . . . An edge on the silence that it might be heard . . . The most puerile excuse for juvenile ardor, ask your sister. No thing not so much in words, the old joke, nor in the world as well.