Somewhere between goodnight and goodbye, you realize something that boils down to talk. It’s cheap, of course, easily evaporated, they have to make up boxes to fix it forever. But the talk is not in the talk. The talk is in the pleasure, and the dream of the talk’s becoming a physique, a sleek one, completely beside the body because we live in air, air bolted to a wall. Nothing but nothing but kissing and forgetting and suddenly that face is reproduced, even in your mail or on your wall, and you’re forgotten. The talk was a body, left on a car hood, cut into drugs, stopped by a post for something called news that’s neither action nor thought. You make yourself into textile and you want to reinvent weaving, or so you think, but a history of other people’s thoughts can’t be written. Its pages could lift you away from that slump if you could study them, but you wait across the street for a light to go on or to go off or you’re looking for a hairline in a mob of such hairlines. You’re perfectly good. The time will go away. The talk will come back in pieces. You are a country and a culture of vomiting behind a car. Nobody’s the scribe there to fix it forever. The learning is in the kiss, and talk and kiss grow larger in each mind. Then they think the history is the backdrop, but the history is the space between. They have a culture of itching and strutting and booking. A culture in pieces, of attendance, of sneering, of not even pretended fuck. A fuck that comes back the next day is not a culture. History is the phone that rings during the fuck, not the phone, not the ringing, but the duration, the space between. The history of spinning and spinning, and forgetting. It’s in the kiss, and you walk it and walk it off and it comes back when it’s no longer any use.