The Book of Absence

One walks into a room. One leaves it.

One recalls people. One forgets. One is there, bright, large. One is gone. One isn’t there.

One leaves to enter. One drowns to swim. One says farewell to say hello, and one now doesn’t know quite what to say. One realises one is neither staying or leaving, coming or going.

But one is. In the middle of a linear timeline. Two dates, a birth and a ____>

One tries to remember, outside the room, what it looked like? It was dim, nearly lightless. There were bright, lit geometric shapes.

One is waving, loudly.

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Waving, loudly produces a peculiar taste in his mouth,

similar to stewed tea but less cloying.

Similar to an afterthought of conversations had while sleeping. It is quite difficult to remember the room they are thinking of because memory recall is largely driven by an overactive hippocampus.

Yet still, people leave, people enter,

many sit motionless.

He wore new shoes yesterday which made the walk home uncomfortable. But at least now he can walk home.

One whistles loudly for a dog to retrieve the stick.


Like a rule no one remembers, one foot in one foot out.

There’s a long white line. Like the edge of a pitch. One foot in one foot out.

Personal messages are faint, but you can see their structure in the paint.

Green and white. Brown and grey. Blue and orange. The motionless people are far from the line. As ever before, they are most, and they are quiet.

The line walks itself home. The line is the visual embodiment of the whistle. The feet are the dog.

The peculiar taste comes from licking the line. Turns out it’s powdered sugar, because we’re getting paid after all. But still, powdered sugar laid upon grass.

It’s a sensual feeling, going absent.
Becoming one with the spirits, the ghosts, the endless suffering

Pleasure, he says, as he tips his hat to nobody.

The air grows thin and cold as though watching leaves rust and fall. You breathe and exhale your final words and bowing

No one watches

Laid on grass, peculiar prickling, pricking

Back is soggy damp, feels grey.

If the line walks itself home then I don’t know where we are. What are the endings and what are the beginnings is what I’d should say

but mostly I am ill concerned with lines in the sand