on the delicacy of a lined morning
one day you can grab a line and surround the noon or any fragment of time. Should you cut it? Not quite, just go beyond time, all the way through time, asking him nicely to get out of your way, just to let you see yourself the way the others will remember you. You won’t belong to yourself any more, nor will you be able to take from beyond the spitefully mild look you adopt when you defend yourself. You will stir in me a small part of the world whose clock is at the clockmaker’s.

Don’t worry, your clock won’t come back and if it does, it will never find you anyway.

Have you ever thought, in fact have you at least once thought that we might actually flow into memories? I don’t know why, but something tells me that you don’t have a clue; you didn’t even dismiss this thought, because there were no germs for this thought to spring up from. I would only ask you not to talk about ‘day’, ‘hour’, ‘moment’, words that bear no meaning to you, not to talk about lines, as I was saying earlier, as if about some quietness pursuing a luminous volute. Certainly, the line is eventually a light. It is, how should I put it, a voyage of the look towards the heart. Not even the sun moves dividing the world in the night. Let’s take a morning like you, draw a line and wait for you to place the image revealing the face of light. the face of a home, of a girl, somehow. The space, which is dissolved at the sight of the detail. As large as the world. Or is the world as large the space? Is there any point in this question, Gicu?

dan iancu
inoperative chronicles