a loan voice

Er, are you still there reader-viewer-listener-feeler? You didn’t recognise me did you with this assumed voice. I am borrowing words from the last post but some details get blurred. Lettering is amiss. I don’t know if I can hold this together—an abnormal sticking together of posts. Post-adhesion. Where did this stickiness come from? From a hesitation it would seem. My adhesion is born of hesitation. Have I left you behind? Will you not come with me, carried along by these journeying words? We had fun before didn’t we? These journeyman words left outstanding with/in the minefield. Cratered, pocked, deformed, reformed the ground is (a) re-surfacing.

Last time we played with the point. We played on the point. We played en pointe. Tiptoeing about trying not to wake the dead whose words live on. We just did it again, did you see-hear-feel the point and the leap? I like dancing with you, until you step on my toe. My feet are sore yet…what was the point you were trying to make. Oh, I’m blaming you now! What was the point we were trying to make? It was a point about…hold on, how can a point go around something? Point as horizon? But you mistake the viewer’s horizon for the seer’s horizon. The seer mines their horizon. We have reached a point through the surface-ground from which…careful…with which…steady…use it as a stance…breathe…

Those ellipses, are they points? Hesitations? Or are you leaving something out? You are missing something. We miss things. We mis-things with our points. Particles that we cling to in a sea of waves. Are the waves seaing? The tempo has departed from these words. If I stop typing now you will never know that I left these words saved as draft overnight and took up the keyboard again the next day. Between a full stop and a new paragraph there are hours, although there is a paragraph (or part paragraph) below that was born with the above. And I do not know now if tomorrow when I type that I may decide to insert fresher words into those tired stale ones above. I may even delete the hole.

Any borrowed words have burrowed through (have been burrowed through). Has the “borrowed” been mis-burrowed? Did you know that the stomach of an earthworm is not coiled like that of a mammal but is instead pleated along its length? I can feel them pressing against the door. Don’t let them in yet. I’m not ready. Do you recognise any of them? Keep your head down! Keep your head down here. My stammering adhesion marks empty words, a sort of hollow torque in hushed tones.A hiss and whisper that words cannot hear (here).

…ok, I’ve got my breath back now. We are a becoming-point reaching with/in the -surface-ground-. Hold (y)our tongue(s)! “Qui est à l’appareil?” Hear what you’ve done. Keep your head down, don’t answer it. One. Two. Three. Four. There, he’s gone. It is only when you say those words that we get into trouble. It arouses suspicion. It is too obvious. But how can we talk (torque) with them without anybody knowing least of all them? Many of them are dead but their words live on.

I don’t understand how this is working. (I won’t look down). It is not a crossing over held together by the spider-goat’s bio-steal. A stickiness is created by the words. It is the word’s sticking that holds them together. Not the frame of this WordPress page or the fortress of your skull (dear reader-viewer-listener-feeler). None of the words are my own, they are all borrowed from/burrowed for somewhere else at another time. I’m going to leave them here and see if the Is are picked out by carrion birds.

By the way, I am not now typing this tomorrow.

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