As provisional as these words, which slip and shift from under me.
The day remains what it is, stretching far out, silent: I’m a babble of voices, both inside and outside the day. Strange predicament.
Then prepare to let words take hold in you. Let them listen to the silence and speak in you. Speak for yourself and see the world as if for the first time, in time’s fullness.
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’s not the thing, the thing not the word, but when the right word for the thing is found, the thing emerges. All happen at once: word, world, speaker. The distant day now suddenly close.