60

Il est minuit (encore). The fucking rain lashed against the window like the fucking rain lashing against the window. Like the rain lashing; like a lash. I was starting to hear the coda. I could feel midnight’s inscription on the night’s dark: sigils, glyphs, curlicues; the ideographic signatures of impending sleep. But I then felt less formless, I could feel even if I could not see the hills of my knees when I sat up in the bed, the concert programme playing another wretched string concerto. I was less of a cloud of seem, a would-be, un peut-etre, and more a space or passageway through which the night’s whorls fell. I was a stark beach at dawn on which one encountered a performing circus troupe. I was a tattoo inked onto the wrist of an amnesiac agent trapped in the back alley of a future city in a world which had put into question all destinies and destinations. All I had to do was leave my body-shaped box behind.