Well, because I'm stuck, that's why. I don't know if I'm working or not sitting here staring at it, tinkering, guessing, feeling dissatisfied. It begs the question, what comes next? Always, that. And what next? And you know what's funny? That's the question that set it in motion, the question of the opening section. Now what:
forward
In an hour somewhere before now, I began the book of annunciations, a canvass of moments that spoke of and conceived of things to come—that would herald a direction ineluctably plain. Set out, walk off, move out, quit. Come. I began this book when, as it seemed to me then, an indeterminate freedom entered my life in the form of an unreceptive drone. Nothing and no one presented themselves, no clear signal of what to do next called attention to itself. No and with its little wagging tale. Once a man who couldn’t be with me wrote: “I tried to call you, you know—and you weren’t at home—and I thought, how invasive of me! And I hung up.” The calling—where are you?—ends in amputation, the line severed as the stem from the tree. But: if you’re credulous enough (I am hiding) every thing’s a contingency marked with imperative: every thing’s invasive (I am naked) and therefore found meaningful.
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