I come to a page and wait for the words. As they come and don’t I know that they come and don’t but I don’t know when or how or what. I only must not be pinned down by waiting. I must wait freely, largely, silently.
Silence is not what I think it is.
I can’t hear it. It comes mid-phrase on the bus at La Motte-Piquet Grenelle.
Silence is not where sound stops. It is where there is no sound.