And now I'm doing this, and now I'm doing that [writing..., pressing keys..., trying to find words..., thinking about..., recollecting..., gathering up the threads of a day that's gone like this and so..., putting that out of my mind..., responding to this expectation..., savouring the light paralysis of self-consciousness..., leaning elbows on my desk..., chewing stale nicotine gum..., sweeping attention over the debris of the last few hours...] Certain words come, but also wondering about the words that might come but don't. Selecting actions to animate with a sense of 'I' that slides clumsily through them without sticking to any, a mass of feeling that revolves into itself while flowing elegaically like clouds pulling away in pale vastness. Knowing how to reference the knowing, giving a little squeeze from time to time to pull out another picture to describe, or to discard... Nothing simpler nor more enigmatic than these moments of self-reference, trying to coincide with the animation that begins again in each moment, that casts off images, like flakes that peel away from an unknowing core, but are only themselves that core and everything around it bathed in equal light, like a moment before sunset in cooling air and the first stars pricking through the canopy of sky.