I miss the book I have just finished; I wish to wrap myself in its clouds.
Part of it still rests within me, because I wanted it so much. I put it down hours ago, it calls from within the bag, it shouts from upon the shelf.
I love it and its blurred madness. A blunt consciousness wavering and threatening to blindly and beautifully savage its dislocations, all the time giving in to the veil of cluttered thought.
It is an unfolding; an unfolding, a destruction and a reassurance. There is no place for infancy, nor for mediocrity and balance; it throws malice at you and urges you to play with its delicate reams of hate. It has a lumbering precision and stumbling agility, argumentative and contradictory, it does not let me rest.
It is aware that its limitations are our limitations and that there can be no thought without limit of thought. Comfort in failing, through honesty.
Sentences are symphonies in the author's arms and it talks in repetition and reinforcement that is not simply louder but better, while drifting without effort between memory and projection, language and situation, flexing a surging, deceptive anger without reprieve.
A resolution which resolves nothing, and explains everything; an end that is a beginning.