This is not the record or transcription of an inner voice but the practice of a literary form, an activity the creates the imagined reality which it purports to express, but not as a disinterested activity, rather as implicated in every other project belonging to the collage of your works and days. All of it is literary in that sense, essential structurings of something that has no structure. If one of these projects goes out of equilibrium them they all do, and what equilibrium any of them possess is only tactical, not a goal but a response to unpredictability. Perhaps the whole thing, the polyphony of it, adds up to something essential, perhaps it necessarily does so, but what that is cannot be imagined from anywhere inside it. All that you know is the moment to moment limitation of the imagination, the persistent and impossible desire to devour the whole world.