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A year. I fear. It cannot take me there or away from there or anywhere but there. These songs on the radio. These calls from another climate, another weather color, they take me there, whenever they come through the window or the electric wires that enter under the window and transform themselves into bloom. A year. I'm aware of it. That gap, that yawn, that open bracket. I heard today from a love from a decade ago or more. I'm unsure of what to do about it, whether to claim this ear as mine. Is this ear mine? When I hear those songs I am the same, I am the one I was before. I am myself a decade later and I am that other body, that set of chemical collisions, hormone and yawn and yearn and earning power and evermore. You can see I am conflicted. I am tied up in it. O. I make too much of myself, as always. I will recede. It's fair to say I see that far and more. I am (you are) a set of nested parentheses inside another nest of them, a thorn and gash of them, of the, of iteration, ball inside of ever larger ball until we are the world and then etc. We all recede when we are the world. It is an impossibility. An unlikelihood at the very least.

Do you hear that sound? It is just a tone, a flat unaltered tone, a pitch. The computer's speaker, maybe, emitting it, reproducing it. That's magic, isn't it, reproduction, even if the brain is reconfigured and so comprehends it differently. If all we are is processing power then what, I wonder. If all we are is loop after lopped-off loop of wire connection, then can we claim to have proceeded, to have preceded any of our thousand stupid decisions?

It's late. I can feel it. I can feel the walls telling me this every time I strike a key on that old typewriter you had delivered to me, what, it must have been six years ago. It still holds that same desk place. I can operate it even as the computer keyboard is quicker. But it doesn't make that same sound, the strike of work, what strife is worth, each accumulating letter somehow containing more, being more permanent, an artifact bursting or at least persisting in the world. If there is a world at all. If there is a word at all. If there is an all at all. An awl in the toolbox out beyond the woodshed I can see the light breaking just across the yard from here. I see you everywhere, myself everywhere, a dozen shadows of myself, and they are multiplying, opening, multiplying and opening, unfolding like a forest.

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