("The wind outside is writing this book," Georges Bataille)
Wanting to praise a book after having read only one page... the feeling persisted, every new page I turned... sometimes they wrecked me, sometimes they saved me, every time they did things i've no words for, any page... one hell of a beautiful ride through and far beyond this linguistic consciousness.
If you ever finish a book to find yourself staring at a single blank page lost behind the final words... trying to imagine the end turning into endlessness. This book has 3 blank pages once the words disappear, i'm still reading them... thoughts haven't been captivated this intensely since, perhaps, Rilke... endless stream of thought going nowhere.
I feel perpetual again.
("SOMEONE ELSE HAS WRITTEN MY BOOKS." quotation marks)