There is a photograph of Paul walking on a lawn and carrying a life-sized version of the cross. It appears to be quite heavy, made of wood. It can be seen to rest upon his shoulders.

I sleep now on a cot. I have giraffes over my chest of drawers and there are icons looking down at me at rest.

It is a coincidence of things and objects that should not belong together. It is the desire to bring the distant close, summon the absent to our present place.

The days, they race toward autumn, and my melancholy sets, these thoughts of parting and of death.

He is himself impassive, participating in a process where there is no distinction made between himself and all the other things that now have found their place.

It is the scraps of language that collect. This precondition for annihilating self.

I’m just a mouthpiece for these bits I’ve conjured up and glued and set to rest. I have found a different body borne by fish. And the shabby things are now becoming precious. Healing pieces of meat.

He will work with what he finds, an old crate for bottles of milk, almost an antique, worn but somewhat fancy, that he found at some bazaar, made of larch, and the lid, he went to the dumpster and he found some glass, little rectangular panes, a neighbor, it was a neighbor, he saw it from his window, was a man, who threw them out the night before, and miraculously they remain, sharp-edged, intact, his fingers have been bleeding.