A luminary sort of hour, perfect for a visiting. We blink into an early morning receivership, seeing time as a place and speaking of it as thus.
Our involvement, here, has no regard, numberless and orderless, a vague intention towards a project, one with the parameters of I shall write everyday but coming nowhere close. It is as much about the sporadic creak of the door as it is about the drift of air through the open window as it is about nothing as it is about the nonchalant dispersal of clothes as it about the erratic way I search the room for keys as it of writing everyday.
My intention appreciated, here, but in a pre-ontological way, later rectified by writing, writing later.
The everyday is a time and a place, and I am nothing but response.
It is therefore a luminary sort of hour, perfect for a visiting.