Maybe essays. Montaigne style. Except very short. Stumps of essays. Or similar. Well, maybe. Always maybe. For of course nothing makes sense. Nothing clicks. You know, this ‘illumination’, when you do something and it feels like this could be it. This could be it at last. Maybe softly, subtly at first, like in an encounter. Then more and more, with more and more certainty. Not that it did not really happened to me, this feeling. Not that I did not encounter that in my life. Just that it always failed. Waned. Or was destroyed. Or forsaken. Yes, forsaken of course. Was it me, the weakling, the inferior, the cause of it? Was it something contextual? Not sure. Not sure that I’ll ever be sure. Back to thoughts. No thoughts. Back to something. That is, forward to something. Nothing. Something like pressing the button and then nothing. Or the pedal, whatever. Oh yes that thought now back. The dream of concentration, or intensity. The dream of perfection. This text where nothing can be extracted. Or everything. That is, where no relief, where no background, where all bits stand out. Out of the hilly landscape of normal writing life a pure absolute surface surges. A plateau, infinitely high. Just reread Rimbaud’s Voyelles, that would work. But the ‘x’ sonnet, the Baudelaire and Poe tombs by Mallarmé as well of course.