It is like I'm making him die.
Right there, on the page, as I read.
A photograph of some soul.
Seeping out, tint by tint.
Unwittingly he'd laid himself bare,
insecurities, inimitable wit and all.
His heart.
His mind.
Here.
"I'm in here."
Willingly taking on the hardest task:
To make me emote in w/r/t The Service.
The knowing unkowingness of it all.
The conniving innocence.
The incongruity.
The clarity.
I turn the page,
and the end draws near.
No more ghost words,
no more recursive characters.
No more implied infinities,
no more painful jest.
With each page turned,
the present becomes the past.
Each page turned,
the end becomes the beginning.
If no one else will write it,
perhaps I will?
If I well-regard the reading,
then I should do the writing
instead of (mak/lett)ing dfw intricately beautifully
painfully mumble muddle w nder through it for me.
20110426
In Re The Only One I Read On-Time
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