[Response to: July 3]

He did know. The day after. Or suspected he had begun to, and that was well. He knew of instructions which had been printed, then set down and let go of in running water. He knew of the garden’s probable position. Even when he looked at someone to speak to them, he often thought he knew whom he was speaking to and the objective of speaking. At times he would be thinking of himself as a kind of genre, subtle but available to be appreciated, in the sense of being noted by his interlocutor’s conceivable discernment. When he sat on a bench, hands on lap, he would be panhandled for several dollars, all while his interlocutor became a kind of genre, too. His responses he tried to make as naturally as possible, in the sense not of integrity, but of sincerity — performed, inhabited, regurgitated. Then often he would only listen and not look, or try to look bypassing retina, recognizing larger vehicles by their swooning sounds when breaking idles. He learned over again how to tie his shoelaces without perceiving them, how the strain of lifting himself from the bench was more rewarding when nothing shimmered or mesmerized. It was as though he had returned to the garden, outside of himself and blinded once more by soil and light moving across his superior lids, unraveling in the garden while the garden unraveled in him and the city remembered itself to his amygdalae. He knew typeface, the relative highs and lows of its legs and bodies, was of utmost importance in a reconstruction of the loosed instructions. He began to study legs, hysterically, to know legs without perceiving them, to remember the legs of an animal that stood over him and the legs of a person who wrote in foxes and to whom he believed he was speaking.


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