Now imagine this: a writing that reads itself. That closes the lid of its own eye like a blind to read, then, in private. A writing that reads aloud, whispering to itself, staying up late, too late.
Writing that archives itself. That reads and whispers, turning over pages. Letting pages turn themselves. In the wind. In fate.
A writing that, like fate, travels across its own pages. That reads itself as it writes and lets itself withdraw into a secret archive, the lid closed over the eye.
Asleep? No, under the lid I am reading. I, writing am reading.
Lars Iyer's Blog 