This being an account of or reckoning under the weight of a true fact that there are states only known through their being abandoned. There is no being without the generosity of limits. Bernadette Mayer is combing my hair. The world is a navel again. This being an account of shelter’s turning point. I do not have the language for the violence of personhood, she said as she unknotted me. Had I known then how to see the field of unknotting figuration, I might have also seen the unknotting evening dipping into the unknotted and knowable eardrum, tuning in and out collapsed, combed through, the distance from each instrument bodily begun. / I am indebted to trash. I am indebted to the speech act. I am lodged in my debts to my no name body. / I shouldn’t admit to it

Cut off from exchange I could see that loss exists. Greedily I wanted the germ of impulse. Bernadette Mayer is working to disentangle our dialogues. She is trying to remember if previously all of life was a dense grid chant. Everyone pictures a blue triangle forming when she says grid. Someone describes to her a film and she sits with her eyes closed, picturing it. You said the image burns before we can describe it? You said we burn the images as we describe them? Cut off from the classic exchange of friction with shadow I could see that I had the capacity to self-interrupt. I took the innocent form safely, the balm of an infant structure still being distributed. The eyes were sincerely closed as the self of all things implodes in a sonic feed. Pre-verbal upsurge this better be resilience at work, that morsel. The mind does so well to picture it. / fallen I thought I could organize my life according to some theme / the capacity to tap a foot and have a pattern