Write at dawn, as day lifts itself from night. The day is coming: write that. The day has come: write that. So is its arrival lifted into eternity. The white page: there, alone, can writing arrive, for look, outside: soon evening will come; soon the day will fall from itself. Then the white page is the day, and more day than the day: the eternity of sense, the supernumerary day of black on white.
The flag of writing flaps in the wind of time. Time mocks it: ‘you say the day has come, but it has not come’, but writing mocks time: ‘the day completes itself on my page.’
Night comes. Time says: ‘isn’t night the ink of writing? Doesn’t the day live by the blood of night?’ Time pauses and goes on, ‘You have killed the day to make the day. Writing is also a tomb, and the words "the day has come" is the trail of blood running from the lips of a dead man.’
And writing laughs and says, ‘you know my secret. In truth, I can only write of the day in the ink of night; I bring the day only by way of deep oblivion. Somewhere else, another day is rising, a brighter sun. Somewhere else is rising the day to which all days are mere indices. How to write of the day itself, free from night? How to write in white ink on a white page, or in darkness upon darkness?
‘I know this is your dream, time, which is why you look for me.’
Lars Iyer's Blog 