As provisional as these words, which slip and shift from under me, draw me in and out of myself.
The day remains what it is, silent and indifferent. I’m a babble of voices, expelled, always returning. No escape from words or from the day. Strange predicament.
Then prepare yourself to let words take hold in you. Let them listen to the silence and speak in you. Speak for yourself and see the world – your home – as if for the first time, in the fullness of time.
Words are alive, they resist dead time. They’re not entirely drained of meaning, not entirely dedicated to capital – not yet. They can still respond to what the world silently says. They can still beckon us into the day and the day into us.
The word is not the thing, the thing not the word, but when the right word for the thing is found, the thing emerges into the Open. All happen at once: word, world, speaker. The distant day now suddenly close.