An evanescence of the man intrigues me, all the more so because I know of no ending for him yet. He waits there still, a facticity, tottering. Real he is, a thing to see, talk to. Yet erased, a world transpired, unremembering, it being left well enough alone, traceless, himself traceless, yet recurs, to be dredged, the penetrable strata, pluckable. To be plucked or not amid the figments, dying, about to die, a synchronicity, any minute for sure, yet, here, he stands, unnamed as he has stood.… more
