On passing over what stares in front, through your own intensity. A memory recalled but depthless. Hear by listening to the narrow corner. We move through it as part of it.

We see its sharpness and its blur. For seeing is a purified thought, thought without ideas, the sculptured light that is all we see. We escape from word by seeing only part of it, the only part of it, the only part of it we can see.

We have nowhere to go, nosite to be. We look forward. We look.