Dreams, like memories, are shores we row toward to escape the ever same tomorrows and their cruel futility. Days which cannot express themselves are grey and cold. Mute days whose untidy gestures tear us apart.
I have the impression of moving in the shadow of syllables, in regions before secrets, where language cannot yet answer the call of thought, in swamps where you risk sinking with every breath.
“Sometimes we have to wait for years,” said Red Tain, “before the minute which marked us finds its voice again. But then it speaks, and we cannot stop the flow of words.”
— Jabès, The Book of Questions Vol. 1 (tr. Waldrop)
Notes from a Room 