(no subject)
thinking within limits is stifling. whilst viking knights fight griffins, i skirmish with this riddling sphinx (this sigil...*i*). i print lists, filing things (kin with kin, ilk with ilk), inscribing this distinct sign, listing things in which its imprint is intrinsic. i find its missing links, divining its implicit tricks. i find it whilst picnicking in lissy (is this intimism civilising if finch limns it, if liszt lilts it?). i sigh, i lisp. i finish writing this writ, signing it, kind sir:nihil dicit, fini.