A kind of thinking with words, but where does the thinking take place? It is a kind of action which is both something in itself, the act of thinking and something else apparently external, the writing, which is at least equally what determines the act. It leaves something behind as it moves, it is a motion in the present, looking towards the arising of the continuation of the thought and immediately releasing it as soon as the words are typed. The strange thing is that there seems to be something that needs to be done, you don't know what that is but you have a sort of rhythmic apprehension of it that lets you find an end rather than a completion of it. You go along to the end. How do you know when to begin? Some kind of thickening in the invisible comprehension of things, which is the closest approach to thinking. The rest is a mime of thinking, but also the only way to resolve that thickening. It bears upon a latent stream of thought without endeavouring to raise it up. It is thin and fragile, like an incomplete web, you engage in it and it submits you to a sequence of changes in which you remain guardedly alert. What is thought comes in flashes, you set yourself up and wait for the outcome, for things seen or sensed in an instant, clear but out of reach. You do this every day, you don't know what you are doing or why, could never explain. By getting away from how it appears, from the interior reference submitting to the spell, you graze against the utter strangeness of a performance in a no place for a no one. Then you go back and fix the spelling.