Can I say it went on for a week. Can I say I woke up each day, and went through each day,

"You were there, and you were there, and you, and you!"

Word went out, a consciousness with a consistency, looked at itself looking at itself, halted the infinite regress, the mirror facing the mirror, a language made possible a belief in location.

I wanted to speak as someone who had experiences. I wanted to speak as someone who knew others. To have things happen, and to speak of them,

someone told a story to which I was unable to respond. The story was the story itself.

 

I want the other thing. Hinges and holes and string. The impossible appearing to be,

an engine, a large machine, an apparatus, a stage for a scene.

 

Can it be a narrator who doubts its premises?

The crumbling, if something will, whom it will happen to.

"Lyric, whose operation is display, and narrative, whose operation is seduction.

Who will speak for the beside-the-point?" (Aaron Shurin, Narrativity)

 

As what happens then, if what happens is always something more.

 

 

Issue One
Table of Contents