Nothing to say. The afternoon, the desk and computer, a pile of CDs (Miles Davis' Dark Magus is playing) … It still speaks, the nothing that says itself by means of everything (the afternoon, the desk and computer …). Nothingness that exhausts plots and treatises. Nothing but the 'to say' of language as it says itself between ourselves and what we would say by means of it.
The 'to say': a murmuring before signification, a sonorousness before sense: how is it that the heaviness of language resonates with the heaviness of the day? Ceaseless rain, westerly after westerly: only language is as heavy as the day. Only the 'to say' of language as heavy as the grey clouds, full of rain.
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