What was it you said about detective novels. It is so old now it was long ago. The days you said those things about detective novels. Did you have it freshly or was there more. Was there more that it showed to you. Did you have it all freshly or is it all stolen like a dining room of paintings. The essence of all literature is to make the reader want to know what happens next. That is what I was told is the essence of literature. It is not art in witing it is technique in suspense. That was what I was told. I was told it by a man who knew more about the writer's technique than the writer knew. The essence of all literature is to make the reader want to know what happens next. To that extent novels are detective novels. All novels are detective novels. There are no other categories. This marvellous distortion of categories is only possible by the failure to accurately define what constitutes a detective novel. That is probably why I still see nothing in them.
It is flat and white and round and hard. It is perfect only to its own standards. It reminds me of you. I was not surpised to hear how nervous you were. If you are slow to relax I am not surprised. I can understand that. It is cold and white and hard. It is rounded gently at the edges. It reminds me of you. I am not really surprised. It is the shape. It is the colour. It is vulnerable. It will not last long. It reminds me of you.
There are bonds forming. One is frightened of being used. One sees the personal shutters coming down. One sees the closing. One sees hostility in each small rejection. One is frightened to be left alone now. There is no room for space just yet here. One is small and round and white and vulnerable. I am pleased to have been able to talk to you again. It is good to be able to escape if briefly our preconceptions.
When it is warm. When the stars shine. When the bath water flows away. I will be there. In the marmalade. By the television. Painted in the dust. That is how it will be. Small, round, white, hard, vulnerable. That is where you will find me. Feel me breathing in. Feel me cleanly. Matched in your briefcases it stands and falls.
The other is rounded, well proportioned. Solid and reliable. Hard and soft. The other is frightened. Wake up. If it is blue it is blue. You must see. Small rounded and white. Siotting in a slightly pitted surface. Using and not using. Needing and not needing. At first I was certain but doubt is a cancerous thing. It grows. It consumes. It destroys. Something I tried to give you to destroy it acting. Something from my certainty. Buth there is nothing that will cure it all. As it grows it destroys. I was certain and now I am certain but still there is doubt. You have avoided the chance that would tell. That is fear. That is small and cold and hard and alone. That is to be frightened. It is no more than that. It does not relax. It does not go away. It is the sharp intake of breath. It will be with you always. Yesterday today or tomorrow. All time is now. Stand taller. Stand calm. Stand firm.
Now you are testing. Measuring. Trying each other. Later comes the vocal problems. Here are the actual problems. Words follow events follow tiredness. It is a pity the gentle tensions betwqeen you rise as you re so tired now, but that is how it has to be. That is the nature of things. Somehow I see you reflected in the light falling through red tissue paper. The image of a crucifix dreams towards you. Nature of its sort. Tonight will be later and more tired than is needed. Tomorrow will not be the easiest place to find it. So like a concrete path to follow where it will again and again. Round and round the world again it rolls a heavy footstep for your service.
The bathroom has filled itself with ferns by the simple process of accumulation. One by one by one, or five by three by one they are added to again and again. The warm bath air protects and envelops them time and time again. The strong atmosphere of repeated cleanliness. Revel in this as in your nature. Green grows stronger in the mist as was before. Here by hard glass cliffs run pale rivers of water into a warm bath air. Repeat it all. Repeat yourselves endlessly in the position of the mirrors. Back and forth flow the endless images. Finally trapped so pale to repeat. Never will you travel out into space and find a new image. All that gliters is of heat again. To end in warmth. The bath flows soothingly into the air, building new houses for you to live in green. Names escape by having no need. What is Cyrtonium here. What is Nephrolepis. Asplenium says nothing but stand here for a moment and grow. Green and brownin sliced trees reflecting images between replete objects.
Endless light flowing in-outwards.