Everything is in perpetual movement.
Nothing repeats itself.
Identity is a piece of sophistry
fit for stubborn spirits.
But listen to the footsteps of all
that moves. Be silent — do you not hear
the ceaseless murmur of the void?
Along its pathways there is always a fullness
of pilgrims, but only the void remains
like an invisible guide, coordinates
of the indifference that marks
no position at all.
And yet, homes are given
in relation to the footsteps. There,
beneath the arches of the sky, the exhausted
lie down; home is the womb
that walks through them, the dancing prostration
that sways among the foam
like a raft of dead wood.
At daybreak, everyone rises
amid mist and stammering,
they crowd the markets with the cry
of their flesh, as if the struggle
against silence were the purpose
of their existence.
A saturated varnish to appease the roughness
of their breathing,
of the image that stubbornly repeats itself
in the mirror, even when it knows
it is always in some other moment,
shot through with silence and waiting,
with scratches chiselled into the air.

Hypotheses, p. 34