The Twin

To say: everything in me is simple. To say: and by that simplicity you can see, as in a still pool, the face of the him I really am, and with whom I have nothing in common. But who is he that speaks from nowhere? Who is he for whom my life is only a way of drawing himself into existence, and who lets me write only to indicate the ‘to write’, the infinitive and the becoming-infinite of writing?

I will not know him. I cannot draw close to him. But he knows me by way of what I do not know about him, and he is close to me by way of his distance.