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Found, when dead, with pen in hand trailing off into an untraceable line. C, slid slightly, from her heavy chair, head back tilted into the air, mouth a small gap, pen on paper, in light grasp, as if both release & certain hold. Surrounding with, in death, her absence, the letters, in hundreds that surround her; the letters that verge, in piles, into where she be, as she has seeped into their ink or parts of paper where they cannot reach. Pointless traces of mutal-entanglement. C had sent letters to all kinds of friends. Her letters are not stories, ponderings, accounts; her letters are practices at single letters of a minimally shifting alphabet. C had not known precisely where to start, she started where she did not remember having had begun. Does also not recall when she stopped making sense. Starts creating, instead of paragraphs & sentences from letters; starts creating, letters & lines from letters. Copy-book schoolbook between-two-lines-letters; tightrope-trapeze line letters, electric wire safety-line letters. She swoops into a language she does not know. She begins with letters Roman alphabet; ends with partings of the, from the, page, the squiggle, hardly signalling a trace; or bold; or wildly patterned. Somewhere between the fully cogent epistle & instances of random seeming squiggle, C cleaves a speed enmeshed with sensible & possibilities for sensible. C plays with variations infinitely present in the alphabet that slowly becoming alphabet, become anew another alphabet. A tendency, as if infected by a fictional disease; concocted, yet one that people somehow believe. C is infected by her alphabets & in turn traces them into process of decay. C writes her letters into ruin, collapses her K into a ruin, doodles H’s into whispers, scrawls her C into a squiggle. The changes are not planned but neither are they abrupt or random. C writes outward; shifting overlapping seas of ripples, varying in minimal degree, affecting minimally, each other. Inversely, she is surrounded with, much of her room is buried under, piles of received, unopened letters; with more than unwound majuscules & minuscules. Her letters received remain unread. Her letters received have proper complex sentences, the paragraphs the arguments; & questions. C’s corners are padded by these unread letters, big patches of her floor are carpeted with letters. Why you write but no reply? Why you no reply? C, slid position, slightly outward, reckons negative, sunken into about to have sunken into. C’s correspondents smell already soon, a stink of absence, a correspondent phantom pain of amputeetered vacillation, vanishing of morphogenerating letters. C found, when dead, with pen hand trailing an untraceable line; her mouth a lovely grimace; its outline forming possibilities of letters, any number of,

2 thoughts on “A try at writing letters

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