to drift –

perchance to dream.

In which one can never quite tell if a thought that comes to one came from one, had arrived onto one, or if one might have merely slid to it, drifted into it.

Where, one can never quite know if one is responding to works – to the beautiful pieces brought forth by Priyageetha Dia, Anne Dufourmantelle, Gabriela Golder, Mariela Yeregui, Jacques Tati – or if one is writing onto them, speaking over them.

Or, if the works might have written themselves onto me, into me, have been guiding the hand (manus) which thinks it is, have been leading the scribe who imagines he is, inscribing onto the manuscript.

Where, the very notion of having a thought might well only be thought teasing one. And where, teasing out a thought always already opens one self to being teased.

But perhaps we are always only – can only ever be – playing.