… under my picture, under your picture — for I have told you about the picture — lies the paint that has run out of the frame, which no longer holds what sloshed back and forth in it, soaked the brush before time, which can then only be taken up –
the brush, which then, picked up by fingers, runs over the mountain ranges, inserting steps and slopes and leaving gaps, gaps like these.
The brushes are clay.
The brushes are clay.
I once knew my face, but not its circumference. I also knew the colour of my eyes. I once believed that the world was created for me and entered me through my eyes, but –
