The same wind that tells you everything at once unstitches your memory. You try to write faster than the thread is pulled.
I say to my breath once again, little breath come from in front of me, go away behind me, row me quietly now, as far as you can, for I am an abyss that I am trying to cross.
And somebody would come and knock on this air long after I have gone and there is front of me a life would open.