Let’s say I’m stronger than I think. That’s not the same as strong enough.
A perfect circle is not a problem solved. A perfect circle is not a line but doesn’t preclude the existence of lines. I have probably written nearly exactly that sentence before.
Two plates, twelve screws. Will I ask to keep them? Would I keep them in a jar next to the urn, my souvenirs of the saddest year, my proof of a singular reality in which these ashes and these pieces of metal belong wholly to me.
Let’s say that I might have scraped it, the bottoms. Let’s say that it’s always been that way. That’s not the same as finished.
Isn’t it pretty, the completeness with I am erasing myself from the story. Isn’t it clever, that the story is writing me back in. What I am in conversation with is obscured intentionally. From me, too. But the story remains informed.
The writing about the writing is the writing is the story is the circle is a line and where we meet, again.
Let’s say that I am not a character. That’s not the same as being real.