report 000025: in the plain speech

thus is the manner of our meeting, in a year grown old. along what forgotten byway i had scented, blood in the mouth yours, & my own. one gropes blindly to meet oneself in the future. with luck the gears clicking do not catch, but smooth, the oil of song

spreading. concentric: by what strange sweet our axles aligning. i would walk awhile with you. & may: at the mind's more northerly latitude, we may stop to marvel over a pebble together. such stillness has grown strange. long have i been stalled in the fugue's first movement in hopes

of a counterpoint, of our maths no longer halved. i am learning about the long sweep of time; about questions i know already. &, scrambling over stones in the early hours, i have come to understand something of indivisibility.