Nothing remains, not even a name. This formal inclining speaks. Always an intimate exhaustion. Besides they think themselves. This essential tendency. The form in giving emptiness. Everything depends upon this mood. To say little, almost nothing. Perhaps less than nothing. Under these two words. Because it lends itself to formalization. Empty of all intuitive plenitude. A full and an empty intending. Supporting an empty repetition. Phrases without actual meaning. Identified as the moment of crisis. Forgetting the full. Revealing the snares of consciousness. Emptiness is essential to prayer. It is through this protective moment. The quality of the intensity. Stretched between two poles. In brief, a corpus. Accessible to us, at least. What is determinable in them? This work repeats tradition. Influential objects of transfer. The art of iterable discipline. For there are masters & disciples. Recall these exercises and formations. Already a disciple, however inspired. The singularity of the unknown overflows essence and divinity, thwarting the opposition of this & that. Her own peculiar genius kept in memory the teaching. And above all start the form. Eradicate every predicate. Inhabit the beautiful and difficult. I am struck by endless recurrence. The paths are not yet cleared. This desert grows and cultivates itself. Discipline accumulates the acts. A language and a testing of language. Whence this poetic dimension. Some would say only form is true. This tends to denounce images. Exceeding essence by testifying. Beyond the theorem. What remains here? Perhaps this. To be nothing that secret. Do you believe you are thus? Just a moment ago. And nothing wants to be. A question of listening. In any case, this excess did not imprint. A surplus on some singular body. Some trace remains. More than life and more that death. The internal will have been absolute. Place nothing but this place. The unknowable we spoke about. Nothing that might hold. The name that names nothing. Erase every phrase that tries to measure itself. The trace inscribed on what comes. This, the most decisive upsurging. Neither this nor that. What is a prayer? One should not ask. Ask for nothing but to give. The very body of this desire. The place of every interval. Everything secret is played out here. A murmur displaces the secret. Desert as figure of pure place. This earthly place is formed in us. Take up residence on the other's tongue. On the tip of the tongue. The lips passing over the edge. Carried by a movement. It was always necessary to lose. In order to save what bears. On the contrary. Quite simply to respect. While being opened by this. The lapse of knowing necessitates doing the impossible. An irresponsible unfolding. Pass through the madness. This passion that leaves a scar. There is only the edge. Draw energy from the promise. Begin with a playing. What is a thing? Once again to quibble. Upon waking take notes. Before I sink back into oblivion. The empty promise of ideal identity. The solitary persistence of form. Surge up through the morning fog. Everything resists deciphering. At least for a little while. What's stable has run aground. Difficult to distinguish. On the other's hand. Destined to lose identity. To become again a question. The small hours of the morning. The rhythms and laws of endless transposition. With a smile or with a groan. With vigilance it's true. I am just waking up. And so on.
