an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Sunday, February 10, 2008

. . . . . . .


"I will empty out my jacket pockets": pockets and more pockets within more and more pockets, a pair of lungs no sooner exhaling their fill of clouds than breathing every bit of cloud all in again. Thus I help myself to myself again--heaps of myself--for I can end the fast when I choose and do--though the fast is a fastening onto what holds fast, you inspiring, me expiring, a kind of symmetry I walk around in all day, breathing in and out, seeing in and out. My eyes convince me of myself and I forget. All day long I forget and have to be reminded. For before me are the clouds and I am taking them in saying look what I made, look.


"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

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