Dispatch from Behind the Mountain
Then there’s this: a page torn from the original stupor to which the mind is always driven to return, drawn by a calling back to the memory of what must have been a room you abandoned impulsively, caught up in the fluster of a vast misunderstanding, or else a room you never left without the sense you were leaving something of value puzzled in the billows pulsing underwater… and even as you turn to retrieve what’s lost you know you never will except in pieces, random glimpses of a nothing you want only to possess again entirely, entirely without sacrifice, as if to sift living long enough among dim lamps might press into your hands the sum of all the pages missing or else leave you briefly able to compose an apparatus which might force the infinite back into the cabin of your thought now and stop the animals where they drink along the perimeter of the lake beneath your sleep.