This thought breaks the borders of the book
by an interior implosion.
It is impossible, really, to go anywhere,
as there are some places that
you cannot imagine.
Still trying out of the loss, forgotten, obscured,
for one more mille-second
not to leave something lost, forgotten, obscured.
And not everything can be saved, salvaged, arranged,
And if there is excessive "system"
set over and around the detail,
it seems as if we have lost touch
with the necessary delicacy, the smallness
of the local and intransigent.
There is scattering and
an unidentifiable feeling. I think it is pools and swamps of sadness.
There is brightness, darkness and no genre
enough for it, though we have some general names
even for gray and cloudiness,
even for the swooping of raptors
even for texts of philosophy.
91. Gloss 46. What vision.