Perhaps it was not something he knew. And leaving it, and then coming back to it, and at the edge of the writing, always having to write, as if his paradise hadn’t the ripeness to affirm itself. With one exception, and that was not what she said, my love, o my love, come with me, this way. That fragile moment, that absolute fall into what, all of a sudden, that moment, that fraction of the instant, that momentariness, falls into here, and here is the one thing to try to relate, to attempt, and yet these words would disappear when transforming the ways and the leaves on the memory. To turn all into the formulations of what is somehow an accident, an opening moment, opened, and where the room is reflected, the lid is inlaid with a memory, a falling through that which is removed, that which would play and be able to come back through the sides, through what ought to be, allowing us to ponder the obscure, the less than clear, the clarity that fights between thought and what would continue to work, to warm and comfort itself, to be the passion through which comes the notion, singing in its own language, something that would appear, disappear, as on the outside, as outside the image, no one there either from or there to. A fragmentary existence, a fraction of itself, what is best to be scuttled.

Paul Buck

from Marthe, Dear Marthe (Nakedness)