"In writing, the point is not to manifest or exalt the act of writing nor is it to pin a subject within language; it is, rather, a question of creating a space into which the writing subject constantly disappears."
A Raspberry Sweater
It is next to my flesh, that's why. I do what I want. And in the pale New Hampshire twilight a black bug sits in the blue, strumming its legs together. Mournful glass and daisies closing. Hay swells in the nostrils. We shall go to the motorcycle races in Laconia and come back all calm and warm.