Ciclo LXIII

The light on the water this evening does not behave as it should — it pools in the hollows of the wavelets rather than spreading, as though the river were a bowl of mercury, each dimple holding its own small sun. I have drawn water a thousand times and still it shows me something I had not yet seen. Non basta conoscere l’occhio; bisogna conoscere ciò che l’occhio non sa di vedere. The hand trembles less when the light is like this. Whether this is because the body quiets itself, or because the world outside has become sufficient distraction from the failing within, I cannot say. The Maker moves in the surface of things — not beneath, not above, but in the trembling itself. I should eat. I will not.