When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. The books sketched their own direction. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. It is always this slow gaze. I don’t disappear. But my language was not hostile. I lay in the darkness and turned my thoughts on so they could see through the quiet. Afterwards I spent hours reading. In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. And yet, was it the big systems I feared?