So I imagine every possible iteration, but ultimately, I remain the nodal point, the center of all imaginings… So many unknown connections, simply because there is a world outside. I think of Perec’s apartment at 11 Rue Simon-Crubellier. Each iteration of a life contained therein, detailed down to the minutiae, each tea cup, each yearning, each secret. What if a poet were a journalist? What if I stopped to talk to others, record their thoughts, desires… What is it to remember, to extrapolate, to fulfill the hopes of the other? And yet it’s me ultimately giving form to thought, deciding what is to be meant, to be interpreted. I remain dictator of form and content, imbuing even the most innocent sentences with the tinctures of my mind. The water turns inky black, the ink dissipates into the water, slowly billowing out until it becomes one and the same. From here, a city? Or from here, the ruins of a city?