Erosion

No story here, write that. Nothing to begin, write that. A room – and what happens in a room? Dust floats; settles. A light shaft sometimes reaches through. Calmness. Who would disturb it by writing? Why add words to all those that have been written? To hollow them out, perhaps. To hollow them into calmness, letting them settle like motes of dust. And so will they build up a kind of reef; so will they settle the room onto the page.

Eventlessness – is that it? Or rather the sense that what has begun cannot end; that calmness is borne on the swell of an event without beginning and without end. A room adrift. Time adrift in the room. Who comes here? Who has ever lived here? Has a room ever seemed so uninhabited? No story here, write that. Nothing to tell. Untell it, then. Erode the story; hollow it out. I will not let it begin, say that. I will not let a story begin.