THE SPACE OF WRITING. Not so much unreal as dark. I am in my light. I cast my shadow over what I would see. I am my own obstacle. How move in such a space? And where? Night without clear outlines, without profiles, let alone their reproduction. No words. None at all. Or few, thin like hair. Slow, out-of-breath climbing the stairs. Leaden legs. Start, break off, out of it, always. Then, in the good moments: a sudden streaming. Grass bending in the wind.

from Rosemarie Waldorp's 'The Ground is the Only Figure'