language is precise and impossible to be but difference. Indifference is a sneaking suspicion, filled and fleshed out.
I am afraid of breakfast and my fork and knife and my spoon and that the food is mushy and that there is not enough space on my plate and that my plate itself is cracked. All of these things I am speaking of are being made by their having been spoken. Differences mark their relative positions in a picture or a series of pictures. Differences mark their shapes and the accusations of fearfulness directed at them. Each themself hurried along to the next.
I stumble over the hurried along and by not being lonesome cannot overcome what will or will not be as it not just my own progression which is being created but a coupling of multiple choices, ingresses, moments. There is perhaps that no one decision takes forefront, and this is a frightening elimination of the chronology of decision, in its capacity for organization. I am organism, feeding fearful of tomorrow’s breakfast. Noon presumes me no solace so I must recall the day’s passage here, the day which already is being.
Already innocent of language, already innocence possessed and taken by language, already commenced to be, a human form, a firm reason to be unsuspecting and suspecting at once. A firm truth to the unknown which hides language nude to its possessor, myself and my present.
If I am afriad of the amassing or accumulation of things in themselves, each must equally fear being possessed and so let them speak, their language is precious, their turns are then and now, they are never still. Nothing of air sits silently in light and shadow waiting to be taken or touched.