The way you inhabit words when actually you don't. The words just go into words then curve around and come out the other side, like smoke rings ruffled by the gentlest breath of wind. If it wasn't easy to turn attention back onto its source then you never would have had to put up so many guard rails to prevent it. That you might just fall into a bottomless abyss, for example, or that you have to bring all these ideas along, or watch them dissolve like sugar in hot tea. The subject, and that would be you, is so naked it is frightening, absolute nakedness, what would that even look like after you'd taken off, or stepped out of, appearance as well? Something like an eyelet, perhaps, shiny and gold-coloured with a hole in the middle, clamped fast, riveted, crimped. Who did such a neat job, made that satisfying little sound? Hear it? So that you could dive through the hole, or the whole, but without any movement, pure act, the unmoved mover in every heart, and all the colours there too.