I follow my delirium, rooms, rooms, streets,
walk groping and groping down these corridors
of time and over and under its staircases
I feel along its walls and, not advancing,
I turn to where I began, I seek your face,
walk doubtfully these dim streets of my own self
under a timeless sun and you beside me
walk with me like a tree, a river going
walk with me speaking to me like a river,
grow like a stalk of wheat among my fingers,
throb like a squirrel warm among my fingers,
flying become a thousand birds, your smiling
has covered my body with sea-foam, your head
is a small nebula between my hands
from Sun Stone, by Octavio Paz
If one spends an ample duration of time reading Beckett’s “How it is”, without pause, without question, the paragraphs or the stanzas (one or the other) begin to appear slightly bent at the center, ascending into the margin. Of course, upon careful inspection no bend is present, no defect of printing, nothing. The text is, more or less, perfectly straight. #reviews

If one spends an ample duration of time reading Beckett’s “How it is”, without pause, without question, the paragraphs or the stanzas (one or the other) begin to appear slightly bent at the center, ascending into the margin. Of course, upon careful inspection no bend is present, no defect of printing, nothing. The text is, more or less, perfectly straight. #reviews