Writing my « book, » or reading, walking in the rain along a Belgian canal, riding the Métro on a holiday afternoon, letting the cat out and in, pulling on a black sock, sitting at the window, I am always seeking what without fail eludes me: the say of it.
I want the last word of the perfect tongue.
And yet I already know the words of that language can’t be had or said.
I can only renounce. All I can do is find where I fail, where the word escapes and how.