Thomas Taylor

White start

**

This is the start of something. It is also the start of something in between what is starting and what it is, besides the time of being what it is to be starting in the time of something new which is starting up inside this is that which is starting and this which is; besides the starting, the being new is as involuntary as the vase on the monitor, blinking aside the newer times have come betimes, beside the time of making something new or turned outer blue and red the motive is still beside the time of being in the time of being the term of blue and red values beside forms of retirement, shades of time beside the rest is turned out to be something here and new a minimal term of this and no other the reflection of which, as association of thing seen and the term of for this or some other is the experience of the time of being at doubt, where your own fingertips have overvalued the linearity of your own terms for something related to the passing hours of inflammatory terms spent on recollection; your own lighter terms fled, swept hours, woolen throngs, hours wrapt in inner values termed this and no other, or your own premises related into something new and slightly heavier than lead, or this position less than comfortable to you, he said, this and no other penetrating slower than you imagined her other hours not looking back and not particularly looking forward would be slightly too cautious to fill the screen with this and no other in your own hours kept from seeing where the end is.

Your own to no other says this is too still to become some other becoming this, and no other says the same is still moving into this and then coming back again into this and no other is still said to become the same as this is still this and no other says the same is still moving into this and no other moving still into this: a still-moving terminal stills the headlong movement into sound the same as stopping here and then moving still into this and no other says the same as this is still held too far into the color moving still here and no other is still here. But you are this in your own seeing of what is moving at night the same weather as before but more of it holding in the forecast is just like some other visitor calling here in the easier movement back and forth of just who you are from time to time made the same as this is still moving his own hours falling forward in these slow hours hooked up in sound and motion to the flowing see-saw of what is heard in the ear’s mind, from slower balances of movement to the very life of the form of experience itself, nor watching content or incontent, who knows the difference, is still held slower hours are woven slow along the nape and then beyond, beyond into the hours of your own dusk in unrecalled sensation the closer terms are kept aside from here to there the relevant hours are still slower than sound moving in these inert rows of light and dark, slower terms are still for these hours moved too slow to be this and no other, it is still this and no other has something to tell them from now and then it is a thing beheld in the formation of doubt released into light, as these terms are still here and moved into color the same as this and what becomes the time of who you are in some other terms mixed the slowly timing capsule of light the hours swept aside influxed and terminal hears his bow string along and stop, as doubt rests.