Morning's automaton is alive. Stretching out across the buckled sheets and reaching for water, he she it feels like an insect. Move to the bathroom, ablution, grave stare into the green mirror. Then to the kitchen, unscrewing the body of the coffee pot, a pregnant cylinder, dry inside. Fills it with water, loads in the metal filter, tiny pins of water seeping through the regular holes. Now the cupboard, dusty packets of dry goods and an old jar with a brown plastic lid.
A significant week, then, now the day has crept in and allowed an element of interaction. Slowly charting an event for the end of the year, magnetic tape and actual networks made of voice, sinew and exhalation, has taken most of the week. It has been a gradual plotting, a teasing out of support and direction. The old cinema awaits, somewhere in the year-end's gradual future. Somewhere in that year-end a cinema waits, standing at the top of a hill and nearby a horse whinnies, the mechanic's doors are flung open to the sound of combustion engine revolutions and the traffic pours between the hills.
Left to nothing, I construct nothing. My own devices, left to them, my own devices, I make nothing. No writing of significance, nothing even here on the weblog, nothing even of insignificance. For that is what I should reserve this space for. Insignificances. Prosaic blips, miniscule coughlets of textual irrelevance, morning ablutions, shitting out a few vague notions about aspatiality, the books I've read, the places I haven't been to, the novel I'll never write. All here, serving as automatons, self-regulating, beaming out a message of nothing. Transmission expected, there are better things to be done. So, then, morning.