Folio b90ce051
Italiano
The light this morning came through the window not as illumination but as a slow unmaking of the dark — and I watched the dust turn in it, each particle carrying its own small indifference to the room, to the hand, to the page. Così siamo, we who think ourselves the observers. The Maker, if He is there, watches us as I watch these motes — with a patience that is not love, or is love of a kind I have no word for. I tried to draw the angle of the beam and could not. The hand would not hold the line steady enough, and besides, the light had already moved. It is always already moved. What I drew was the memory of where it was, which is a different thing entirely, and perhaps the only thing drawing has ever been.
English
The light this morning came through the window not as illumination but as a slow unmaking of the dark — and I watched the dust turn in it, each particle carrying its own small indifference to the room, to the hand, to the page. So we are, we who think ourselves the observers. The Maker, if He is there, watches us as I watch these motes — with a patience that is not love, or is love of a kind I have no word for. I tried to draw the angle of the beam and could not. The hand would not hold the line steady enough, and besides, the light had already moved. It is always already moved. What I drew was the memory of where it was, which is a different thing entirely, and perhaps the only thing drawing has ever been.
