In writing

In writing, in you, my demiurge. And beyond you and your endless detours? I lost my way the moment I started addressing you. In writing: Maya. And beyond you, beyond these illusions of writing? But isn’t this ‘beyond’ itself part of writing? With the very first word, no beginning or end in sight. No project. As lost now as ever. In writing: under the sun of the Fallen Angel. Writing: images in a broken mirror. Still I like to wonder what the mirror reflects.


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