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 still — 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,
an invisible guide, coordinates
of an 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, all rise
amid mist and stammering,
they crowd the markets with the cry
of their flesh, as though the struggle
against silence were the meaning
of their existence.
A saturated varnish to soothe the rasp
of their breathing,
of the image that stubbornly repeats itself
in the mirror, even as it knows
it is always in some other moment,
shot through with silence and waiting,
with scratches chiselled into the air.

Hypotheses, p. 34