Without Paper On Which Such Things Are Written

An astute judge of person. A hawkeye even in his sleep. Anyone who'd be called on to describe him
would already have done so under his influence, a product of having been caught in his calculating
empathetic net. We call him, what, a historical figment. From a creative distance the smoothness impossible
against lines made expressive and explicit by being hands that are and then were, always back and forth
forward, in a room loosely rented. Doing the official thing, expecting the gratuitous as waste that gathers
from the various of his country a symbol: potent.

The paperweight. The state stationary. The marbled, intelligent pen. In which penmanship already
marvels as the latent. Waits. Like events ahead of themselves. Clairvoyant as calm
in what are simply nerves gathered
to sense touching. In a half-hour his Secretary of Self will seek through the door. Behind which millions
and advisors will have their say and encourage. These he sees in his pen. A shake. A tap. What color
ink? Any shade that will double erasure of what matters.

Any can do that. Matter. Murder. Both, if you'll notice, split unseemly for a middle. Intention of meaning
bleeding into flesh and out. A home crew of crows, one will breaking from another's--in loose and another
form focused, bodily pinata.

He raises the prosthetic pointer finger to his lips.
Their shhh spontaneously triggered.

Hovering above the desk, or is it reflection's sheen on the woodgrain, florescence's pretension to vision, a
quasi-mist adjusts the air like bedsheets. A wife and a kid and a family. A family and an extended. Blood
relation tethering and tubering, a neighbor. And moreover again: a family. And spread laterally, unimaginable
and inclusive it weakens. Until this fine focused inktip has a collage of generic wills
to command it.

Won't do, he sips. Adjusts the squint. Not feasible. And in that imperceptible, no,
in that small, in that careful
unconscious, collective anti-decision, finds yet another pronouncement as himself. This is
no land of borders, it's a
country. A space in which standing is a righting of all else.