Indulgent writing. Writing swirled and warmed up about like brandy in a glass. A writing treated before it is used, like one of Cage’s pianos. Or rather, that treats itself, thickens itself and indulges its own wanting to say, language without user, language that speaks and hums and mutters to itself. What does writing do when your back is turned? What words form on the page? Rather that the heads of written words bow like barley in a sudden wind. A wind across the words. Through them – and that blows in your absence, when you’ve turned away.
Lars Iyer's Blog 