untold, unwritten

Unspoken half-words, as if the shadow of a pen without a pen to cast it onto a page, write themselves in the book of the night. They sink swiftly into the blackness of the paper and fall into the depth of darkness. Even if the echo of the bottom encountered on their way down (or maybe the it is the day encountered, as if light at the other end of a gutter) returns back to the surface, I cannot hear it nor read it through the sleep. On the morrow, the book does not open, and on the following night it is impossible to find the same page again. Their bookmarks are watermarks wandering through the pages when nobody is looking. Writing remains, words flee, thoughts…

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