(I feel as though what makes up my writing, right now, is uselessness, is what foams, a sauce, redundancy: pleasure of peppering the sentence with “no doubt,” with “perhaps,” with “somewhat,” with “a bit,” with “already,” with “enough.” But must this pleasure be a danger, a facility, a system? And must a written text be a crossed-out text?)

(Hervé Guibert, The Mausoleum of Lovers)

“I lent him my copy of Letters To A Young Poet,” said Broderic, a book she said greatly inspired her decision to become an educator. “He just drew samurai swords in the margins.”

fingerspit, trace a

line over walk

down made a

choice to up

permanent residence within.