Today is a day when nothing exists–and suddenly everything does. The secret I’ve concealed from nobody: I don’t know what I am. I do feel I’m a what and not a who. Right now consciousness is a fusion of surfaces. Some are reflective and show themselves to themselves. I’m showing myself to myself by writing about M. I enter each sentence standing on my head. I’m totally emptying myself out, yet the emptying seems to be replenishing–I feel so full, I’m about to become sudden. (An image of a waterfall.) The smile of a god is this: I’m no longer hiding anything from myself. I see the shadows of leaves that haven’t budded yet because it’s still winter, it’s still not the time I feel it is. I propose a new unit of time–the image. Lately time has been moving faster and faster because the means of distributing images are as fast as light. There are so many things to see, a human lifespan seems negligible by comparison. In the time of the image, I’m a flea. Tonight I’ll probably die again if I can’t find a bigger creature to cling to. If I can burrow into its flesh, time will move more slowly for me. I’ll lumber along with its slowness, labor alongside its breadth. And since things will occur more slowly to it, I’ll also be given a rest. My metabolism can only handle so much information. It can’t convert it all to energy, which means I am constantly faced with my own inadequacies. I’m surrounded by loss of what I supposedly need. So many opportunities to become perfect pass me by, there’s no way I can doubt that I exist monstrously. And it’s strange, to be living in a time when to be really human–that is, to recognize one’s own inadequacies lovingly, the way a mother picks out her children from a crowd–to really be human now is to be a monster. To be a really human monster, I have to be a monster of love. To show my monstrousness my love, I write about M.

[for M. in its current incarnation as a Word document]