I feel « the uncertainty of appearance in a phrase universe » places, light « looking through it, » I am « passed » and stripped of bearings, grounded to sensory inebriation. Where is this touch to lead, this false demarcation? Skin. Our darkness the opposite of red. Which burns, here, when reaching over left on electric comes to howl and to howl and to… I am not. Or blank as that reproduction of me between. An image, imagined, an imago. Take it back, unveil it, déshabille-toi! The voice is mine, professed. Rain is only sound inside the enclosed here. « There are no moorings in conversation ». Voice other than, credited, solitary within the not arriving demographic of departure. That is, shaking when I may be remembering. I might have been just a phase. A phrase, unverifiable. Tactile as is wary, tender and dangerous. Speech. Syllabic.