Here are one hundred steps within one word, where distance doesn't do the writing any longer.

 

Each sentence on the postcard starts with an "I".

Until something affectionate is being said, then the "I" is lost.

 

Is an absent subjectivity necessary to address a lover?

Or is the missing "I" violence, cowardice?

 

What does the subject become in love?

 

I want to slow down, walk by faith.

From one open window to the other. Not as a quest for freedom, rather as the choice of no escape.

Impossibilities playing a vital part in the evolutions of thought.

 

The infinite ways in which light enters a space, the contingency of layers: you are no longer stuck in the symbolic order.

A story writes itself.

 

When less spirited, we perform.

 

Do I want to talk to a pattern?

To what's commonly said:

I is the sunlight passing over the wall, disclosing the cracks or the smooth surface, or both.

 

A belief open and centered.