report 000024: vantage

always there is the fear of reprisal, of the gift given turning to glass shattered in the mouth, spit back. there is nothing for it then but to kneel, & tremble. the line between perfect pitch&fever. have i learned nothing from physics? oh, Eddington, how quickly i forget; myself am the bitter proof of your insight. but this is not a matter

of memory but of the blood's long knowledge calling across a plane riven at t+the untaken measure of the difference between our pulses in this creeping year. there is a room where the video plays ever at half-speed; there is another, to which i am denied access, in which the glass spinning from my hand that morning comes home. sufficient unto the day is the

terror thereof. forgive my alacrity. i have been incapable always of doing anything in fractions. under Coleridge the part is the whole, but your blackbox's recalibration renders the equation suspect. haste. i fear my own foolishness, & that we have been brought to a pass where fear is no longer strange. an unfamiliar

song, & i play it badly: but rust in the mouth sings antiphony with the living blood, & fear makes its business only of possible futures.