[. . .]

What a desperate trance! — The skyboat resembles a flying vulva; the city, the arc of an abandoned soliloquy.

Writing is disguised as perception's ghost, a nocturnal substance to be spread by the Sun. In the future, flames will possess the stillness of objects stolen from the past.

Accuracy is hopeless if unintentional. NOW demonstrates the
mirror's pull, its perfume: everything has (always, already) suffered countless iterations.

Eyes: the emblems of the invisible. Hands: the instruments of renunciation. Head a crumbling turret that at evening collects such thoughts like crows —

There exists a set of objects made up of those objects that do not belong to any set.

There exists an uncorrupted Text: a Boat built out of the sliding
surfaces of the sea.