Love letter # 113

There was no knowing. Only knowing. No guessing, only guessing. The accident. Our collision. The wreckage that became our harbour. The mapless navigation of storms. Our tracks in a desert of invention.

Erase. Create. Forget. Remember.

There is no point, only motion. No is, only what will be. We are as a circle, travelling far, staying still. We repeat everything, yet make nothing the same.

Therefore, let there be no reduction of names. This will not be called anything; and by this wordless inference we shall call it forth.