I wrote this before:

I am learning, here, something, I think, about love. That time breaks down in my particular brand of solitude, and that solitude is best shared, and here is where love begins.

A narrative.

A listing, a writing structured by the numbers, a leaning, a sinking down, a tenuous narrative, a doom. Writing, reading, not to get to the end but to be being within the writing, the reading, the seeing. I'm finished obsessing about death; I pick up my pen and fend it off--not really doing battle, but rather forgetting there was a battle in the first place. The mark on the page is alive and so am I.