there was once a few minutes where the scratch of sun was like a record scratch and it disturbed everyone.

everyone was in a room like waiting at a train station but on this occasion there was no train arriving, nothing at all in fact was arriving, everyone was simply gathered without waiting, without coming or going, simply mingling but also not, everyone was not speaking with each other, there was silence filling the room. the room was filled with everyone but then it was as if there were no walls. then it was like a huge storm shook the walls which weren’t there and they suddenly appeared.

don b. and marquis and machado de assis all had their names etched into the bathroom mirror which was in the bathroom which was in the back of the room without the walls which suddenly appeared. before they appeared all we had was the mirror. in it the sun could be seen through the window in reflection, thereby seen without causing blindness. looking in the sun always makes one blind. don b. said that. that’s why his name was up there.

I wrote in the charcoal paint of the room my own name.

it was spelled without letters I knew I didn’t know. can we speak again, ? – said everyone in the room silently.

it was spelled don b. and marquis and machado de assis and ishmael and in the jaws of an airliner the sound of the silent room with walls which were not there was carried over the heavens, over the clouds which bestowed the awareness of the scratch of sun which was so disturbing.

I was stuck in the bathroom mirror, all my names were all I was, & just like that I was gone, everyone was gone because the room didn’t have the walls at all, and all the rooms are their walls, so just like that the room was gone and so goes everyone in it.

it was spelled in dark lips making the sound of the name which I could not know I’d known.

I’d known how to spell in the air which holds frozen. don b. said that. he was on his deathbed and his signature paper airplane drawings which popped up from his mind on occasion came spilling out, all spilling out in his bile and blood and shit and piss that spewed from his dying body. don b. said that, about his own deathbed, said he’d shit and piss everywhere even if he wasn’t quite ready to die because that’s the way it happens, isn’t it? it’s like they said, the sun is utterly disturbing, can’t we just please each other in darkness in a room with walls which don’t exist so we can stop looking between here and there and turn off the light. machado de assis said that, just after his death, he ruminated on the ruminations of himself having already been dead.

he looked at the white of a cherry tree as if his love was everything.