There can’t be a story for an object of light. The second you try to hold it the emptiness takes over. One rebounds the beauty by looking at it, imagining that glowing shape contains loss. Composition by resurrection. Once I had repetition; days over and over of your dailiness which (without direct memory) involved strawberries, lost afternoons, the sun moving away. Kafka said, “My stories are a way of shutting my eyes,” and here, too, is my closing. I’m searching for justesse as Barthes: “justice and accuracy”; just an image, but a just image. But I find nothing but darkness. If the Greeks entered into death backward, I must find a new direction. So I flip language under itself to illuminate everything reversed: the sun coming, found afternoons, berries the color of the sun — which has no memory. Your dailiness is the shape of gold. It is lit loss.
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