Prose is the body’s temperature. The human voice. Inside – outside. As a simultaneity. Pictured as flat print on a four-cornered headless hat. A wallpaper widget, a pat of flat. A voice; recorded by feather, once, appropriately enough, now it is an energy pulse; an onscreen steady state light. Heatless heat. Warmth in a place. Simultaneously one is inside / outside. Neither instance however. Perhaps this is a grief. When I first moved to [N.N.] five years ago, taking up my commuter yoke of – plus n. … I remember walking onto the grey platform and finding a curious release in the train space of the track curving off invisible into the green, into the trees and bushes at the edges. It was like finding the start of a sea in miniature, a small four track wide world that zipped into a who knows where of limitless promise. It merely went to London Bridge, but that isn’t how it felt. This might explain the persistence of the graffiti one finds up and down the line on every possible surface, that the obliterating brown paint merely finds a fresh context for. The feeling that here is a forbidden zone. A place forbidden and therefore a kind of wilderness. A place where one can’t go. As into a word on a page, provoking the writing of the word itself.
