(no subject)

Copy and paste the day.

Fill the map of your time with dotted paths spiralling campsite to same-way-same campsite.

Until all the blanks are stamped full of your lot.

It's still not the same as a map of your day.

If the two each had faces they'd argue and never agree.

You, with a face, will hear them. Will listen at times to one, or neither, or both.

Will listen sometimes to the paper as each is scratched forth.

What marvellous paper! Part crag and part cream. What is marked as much upwells as invades, giving substance to chemical dreams and how textures could be. The place each place is in is like no other, but isn't just one. Every part of the sheet is no part of a sheet, and through the hole in each that is each you see another hole below. And something sees you from that hole and it isn't a hole.

And you always have another sheet.

From that stack at the front of the room that was here when you came.

A blank one in your hands while you listen to breezes disturbing those redrafted maps freshly hung on the line.

If you'd call that a blank.

Though it's certainly blank.

Is everything ever meant by "blank" by you.

And nothing not.