Having come first to the fugue from a psychically dissociative fog of identity, I might have missed the steady implication of the waves upon the mind of winter. However, while sat in Russian symphony just last week – the concerto’s fugue ensuing like so or such or so – I, having thought the fog a formless space, a space less motion, merely adrift, was made informed by my uncle: were a fugue but a subtle and receding repetition – steady grounded ground if groundless over ground, which many other themes will pass & find themselves exposed.
The forever emptiness of ocean, somewhere therein, seems to lie a woven thisness, out of nothings, sure, but all in all. Depths seem made of layer on layer of empty surface & when snow licks near a sea, crashing is certainly the custom behind the dream of eardrum.
Fall, float, swell, churn, pummel, flow, fill, sulk, boil, wash, spill, eddy, rush, recede.
There is nothing water will not do to quiet the eye of the I.
(There is nothing water will not do to quiet the I of the eye).