The room inside me has disappeared. At night, when all is quiet, I no longer hear the pictures shifting on the walls when I walk fast. Only the pump in the basement. I wonder whether the space has folded in on itself like a tautology, or been colonized. You think the wine has washed it out, and it's true that the mirror tilted at a reckless angle. I still have the floor plan with measurements, but now that nothing corresponds to it I can only take it as part of the emptiness I try to cover up with writing. To know my blind spot. I have always wanted to dilate my landscape for the piano and the long labor of losing the self. Though I am too nearsighted for clouds. If I had lived a different image.
Waldrop 1987, 71