Sometimes, I confess, I think these words belong to me and that you’re a kind of clerk whose time, too, belongs to me. Sometimes I envy you, the throbbing man, to whom things happen. Or I pity you, the lost man who’s hardly there, whose words aren’t his own. But these words I dictate to you, that you scribble, type, delete, rewrite and labour over to make me look good, give me a presence I can’t maintain. They’re fraudulent to the core, that’s the thought we must both hold on to, even as we flee from it, flee from each other, push each other away.


The one who lives and the one who — what? Watches, criticises, dictates. Fraudulently: even as I manage to make you sit up straight and scribble what you think you hear, what you think I’m saying. Do I even know what I’m saying before you scribble it? Fraudulence upon fraudulence. Let’s write from that fraudulence, then, out of and into it, like falsely accused plaintiffs waiting for the real thing, the liberating judgement that’ll never come.


What am I reaching for, in these words you type for me? You: my Kaspar Hauser. The misted-over image in the mirror. You who can’t live, and without whom I can’t live, without whom I too am a Kaspar Hauser. Then let’s write from our incompleteness, let our writing – our waiting – be a reaching for each other that might somehow reach others.


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