The empty source, or blank relation of pure identity (as in word

= world, sound entombed in sound).  Memory-figures surround the hole, their faces clenched like fists, adopting attitudes of
hysterical repose.  Imagine the 3 dimensions leaning backward to insinuate the eroticism of a single line.  The remaining space must be rectangular, its surface curled and blackened by quotations.  Pain, as perfection, exists at the margin of every page. Handcrafted letters are the residue of another, inhuman Presence.  Call it X the unknown: a futuristic city whose architecture is indistinguishable from music.  O, the irresolvable accord!  The hammer's authority in regard to a mirror.   Absence covered in a plenitude that still conserves its secret. Rise of ash, the arousal of sheer quantity. . .
its masklike beauty

   (holds)

  a quiet will. A white quill