Words in the form of descriptions or confessions or investigations can fascinate but don't change anything of themselves, the thinking through them is the weaving of a virtual subject far removed from the reality that they serve. Seeds sprout, fevers rise and die away again, what urgency is there in stones and flowers, doors and windows, water and sky? Experiences and relations are more plausible, fall closer to the grain, but prove no match for the simple persistences of time forming and dissolving ways of being, faces no longer recognised, tendernesses relinquishing. Afternoons grow pale and your hands release their grip. If only this blue light would remain, would prevent you rising up again to follow old dreams to old conclusions. Neither this one or another, here nor there, unquestioning the silence.