A book is all the more accomplished for being partial, momentary.

Simplicity? When is it finally possible to write about literally anything at all, accepting anything that happens if it is no longer possible for anything to stand for anything else.

What happened once was a rupture, and the form of that which had happened—something that happened in a volatile way—no longer exists, so much as even imparting a slight sensation of pain.

The wars approach, on a scale and in a form as immeasurable as the drifting gesture, cooking or collecting wood. The voices, their collation, glide in relation to one another, across each other.

Silence is a block of space, an interval carved by the sound for the vocal sphere that cannot be identical to the signature, the inclination of a life (not "person").

Primitive? The expressions in a work are their shifting relations across one another in relation to the momentary determinations they are drawn from, drawn up from the interior of the impulse into the exterior contour of a set of circumstances—unpredictable,

My word for the color of Yellow does not designate a landscape.
The Lullaby and the Love Song distribute the native gesture.
The refrain intercedes in the melody, the look of a field in a land.