That which is written falls curling like a rind from the writing. If you imagine that what it evokes in the reader is akin to the active presence writing, then this is because that presence is rooted in effects of reading, in a decomposing, dismembered mass of reading that has never been remembered until not even now. What you imagine must be quite wrong, because what can be read is the same words whether you are here or not, is indifferent to your passing; your death has already happened in it, as it is here and now on the reverse of the glass. But the writing is what fails of absolute being in this which is absolute being and refuses time, refuses time by using time, playing it like a concession to the sun and the moon, to the body and its needs, its fatal numberings. The writing is cardinal while you are ordinal, placed end to end, measured, limited, inaccessible, struggling to speak like a paper kiss struggles to enact desire, not because it is too little but too much, this vastness signalling from nowhere with black light.