Too tired, can’t write, or unless it’s just to write that: too tired, and that I cannot write. But what does that register? What does it make clear? A kind of flashing of the sky in the sea, reflected. Flashing flashed at the sky: what does it matter, and to whom?
Sunlight on the backs of the houses, opposite. One o’clock. Home for lunch, and to write a blurb – two or three sentences, no more than that. But nothing comes to mind. The yard: no scar now where the pipe was ripped from the wall. Grey rendering instead, and spreading around the corner to cover the kitchen wall. And a strip of lighter concrete along the concrete floor of the yard where the burst pipe was dug up and replaced.
Came home to write a blurb, and thinking only of that. The book I’ve read three times in typescript. The book whose pages I’ve marked and annotated. I wrote the word, tone on the title page. Tone: a sign to myself. A word I want to explore. The typescript is full of such words, such signs. My trace. The passage I have left through its pages, like the voyager in Verne’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth follows the signs of a previous explorer. What happened to him? Lost at the earth’s heart just as I am also lost at the heart of a book for which the blurb will not come. Lost in eighty pages on my bed in the other room.
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