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Dimly Written Away or Not
or An Experiment in Unfold Technique as an Improvisation Upon a Theme, c’est-à-dire écriture automatique orienté
Theme
Gardner F. Fox, Terrore su Londra.
Improvisation
Night or day, it might be somewhat the same—however it is not day, perhaps it is night—it is being written—so then and there it is night, perhaps.
Well, it might be day, but perhaps it is night, it is being written, and so be it.
The sky might be clear or not, if the sky was to be looked—but it is not looked and perhaps it is not clear—because of the clouds, perhaps.
So it might be a cloudy sky, though it is not looked—and there might be rain falling down from that cloudy sky—cloudburst or downpour—but rather drizzle, or so it is being written—perhaps a cloudy night, a rainy night—rather a drizzling night—and there might or might not be mist—but maybe there is mist, it is being written, so it is a misty night.
A cloudy, drizzling, misty night—the sky not looked, it is being written.
And it might be inside or outside—but, if inside it would not be on a vehicle, and if outside it might be on a vehicle or not.
However it seems to be on a vehicle, it is being written, so be it.
It seems to be, or it is, on a vehicle, perhaps for weariness, or indolence, or something—or because it rains, or because of all that, or even something entirely different, perhaps
It is being written, however, that it is on a vehicle—there, in the night, a man—it seems.
Might it not be a woman or something?
Well, it might, but it might also be a man, and it’s a man, it is being written, so be it.
Night, a vehicle, a man—as it is being written—the sky not looked and not seen—in the drizzle, in the mist, on a vehicle, a man—and now it stops, he gets off—not hurriedly, but not even slowly—it is being written—he gets off—then he stands still—perhaps not absolutely still, but reasonably still.
Now, there, he stands still and he has a suitcase between his feet—not a big suitcase, nor a small suitcase, nor exactly a medium-sized suitcase—it is not undimly being written—but supposedly a rather capacious suitcase—perhaps even a dark suitcase.
So he stands still, there, in the cloudy, drizzling, misty night, the sky not looked and not seen—perhaps wavering, maybe thinking or not thinking, still but perhaps not perfectly still, a rather capacious suitcase between his feet—and perhaps his heart beats somewhat too fast, possibly because he tries to remember something, it is being written.
As to write what he tries to remember—well, it’s a hard thing to write—notwithstanding it is quite possible he is trying to remember something, so it could be assumed with reasonable uncertainty that he is trying to remember something—but it is not written what, at least for the moment, though afterwards it will be written, perhaps.
And while he stands still—but perhaps not absolutely still there—a suitcase between his feet, in the cloudy night, in the drizzling mist, the sky not looked and not seen—maybe thinking, heart beating a little too fast, and perhaps trying to remember something—does he knows what thing he is trying to remember?
Perhaps he does, perhaps he does not.
It is not being written, temporarily at least.
So perhaps he is trying to remember something and he does or does not know what that thing is.
And now, it is being written, in the cloudy, drizzling, misty night, after he got off the vehicle—there, still standing, perhaps not perfectly still, with a supposedly capacious enough suitcase between his feet—that man whispers something between himself, it is being written.
Perhaps he is alone, there, in that misty, dark drizzle that might or might not be qualified as a damned dark drizzle—still standing in what might or might not be qualified as a fucking, imperfect stillness—with what might or might not be termed as a damned suitcase between what might or might not be called his fucking feet—it is being written—he might or might not do something—and if he does something, he might do many things—but of every possible thing, it is not undimly being written, he makes one, or so it seems.
Perhaps he whispers between himself—and perhaps he does so because no one is there but himself, maybe.
Perhaps he does not know for sure if he really is alone there in the night, which might or might not be termed a fucking night—but so it seems—and though it is not undimly being written if he really is alone there, so it is possible to assume for the sake of writing—dimly or undimly—that he is alone there in the drizzling misty night—and so on.
And there he seems to whisper something between himself, and it is not being written what—and it is something impossible to be written, because his voice—assuming he has a body and so a voice as well—not forgetting that to have a body does not imply to have a voice—assuming, however, he has one—his voice does not find its way into writing—so what he whispers is definitely not written, be that intelligible or not.
It might or might not be asked in writing what matters and who cares, and an answer might or might not be written.
Apparently he is alone there in the night, in the drizzle, in the mist, the sky not seen and not looked, after he got off the vehicle, perhaps standing still, but not absolutely still, his heart beating a little too fast, perhaps thinking, perhaps trying to remember something and knowing or not knowing what a damned thing he is trying to remember—and perhaps there is no one nowhere to care about what he whispers.
However he seems to whispers something, it is being written.
And then he is standing still no more—he seems to be moving, perhaps—a hardly seen, almost unseen movement in the cloudy, drizzling, misty night—and so on—but he seems to tidy his coat up, and perhaps he does so—though it is possible he does not, because it is being written as dimly as that drizzling misty night which might or might not be qualified as a fucking night.
However it is somehow written, or so it seems, and so be it, whatever it is written because it is written, for what is there and everywhere and elsewhere and even nowhere but that was written and is being written?
So be that as it may be written, and so on and on, and writing on and on…
Well, it might be day, but perhaps it is night, it is being written, and so be it.
The sky might be clear or not, if the sky was to be looked—but it is not looked and perhaps it is not clear—because of the clouds, perhaps.
So it might be a cloudy sky, though it is not looked—and there might be rain falling down from that cloudy sky—cloudburst or downpour—but rather drizzle, or so it is being written—perhaps a cloudy night, a rainy night—rather a drizzling night—and there might or might not be mist—but maybe there is mist, it is being written, so it is a misty night.
A cloudy, drizzling, misty night—the sky not looked, it is being written.
And it might be inside or outside—but, if inside it would not be on a vehicle, and if outside it might be on a vehicle or not.
However it seems to be on a vehicle, it is being written, so be it.
It seems to be, or it is, on a vehicle, perhaps for weariness, or indolence, or something—or because it rains, or because of all that, or even something entirely different, perhaps
It is being written, however, that it is on a vehicle—there, in the night, a man—it seems.
Might it not be a woman or something?
Well, it might, but it might also be a man, and it’s a man, it is being written, so be it.
Night, a vehicle, a man—as it is being written—the sky not looked and not seen—in the drizzle, in the mist, on a vehicle, a man—and now it stops, he gets off—not hurriedly, but not even slowly—it is being written—he gets off—then he stands still—perhaps not absolutely still, but reasonably still.
Now, there, he stands still and he has a suitcase between his feet—not a big suitcase, nor a small suitcase, nor exactly a medium-sized suitcase—it is not undimly being written—but supposedly a rather capacious suitcase—perhaps even a dark suitcase.
So he stands still, there, in the cloudy, drizzling, misty night, the sky not looked and not seen—perhaps wavering, maybe thinking or not thinking, still but perhaps not perfectly still, a rather capacious suitcase between his feet—and perhaps his heart beats somewhat too fast, possibly because he tries to remember something, it is being written.
As to write what he tries to remember—well, it’s a hard thing to write—notwithstanding it is quite possible he is trying to remember something, so it could be assumed with reasonable uncertainty that he is trying to remember something—but it is not written what, at least for the moment, though afterwards it will be written, perhaps.
And while he stands still—but perhaps not absolutely still there—a suitcase between his feet, in the cloudy night, in the drizzling mist, the sky not looked and not seen—maybe thinking, heart beating a little too fast, and perhaps trying to remember something—does he knows what thing he is trying to remember?
Perhaps he does, perhaps he does not.
It is not being written, temporarily at least.
So perhaps he is trying to remember something and he does or does not know what that thing is.
And now, it is being written, in the cloudy, drizzling, misty night, after he got off the vehicle—there, still standing, perhaps not perfectly still, with a supposedly capacious enough suitcase between his feet—that man whispers something between himself, it is being written.
Perhaps he is alone, there, in that misty, dark drizzle that might or might not be qualified as a damned dark drizzle—still standing in what might or might not be qualified as a fucking, imperfect stillness—with what might or might not be termed as a damned suitcase between what might or might not be called his fucking feet—it is being written—he might or might not do something—and if he does something, he might do many things—but of every possible thing, it is not undimly being written, he makes one, or so it seems.
Perhaps he whispers between himself—and perhaps he does so because no one is there but himself, maybe.
Perhaps he does not know for sure if he really is alone there in the night, which might or might not be termed a fucking night—but so it seems—and though it is not undimly being written if he really is alone there, so it is possible to assume for the sake of writing—dimly or undimly—that he is alone there in the drizzling misty night—and so on.
And there he seems to whisper something between himself, and it is not being written what—and it is something impossible to be written, because his voice—assuming he has a body and so a voice as well—not forgetting that to have a body does not imply to have a voice—assuming, however, he has one—his voice does not find its way into writing—so what he whispers is definitely not written, be that intelligible or not.
It might or might not be asked in writing what matters and who cares, and an answer might or might not be written.
Apparently he is alone there in the night, in the drizzle, in the mist, the sky not seen and not looked, after he got off the vehicle, perhaps standing still, but not absolutely still, his heart beating a little too fast, perhaps thinking, perhaps trying to remember something and knowing or not knowing what a damned thing he is trying to remember—and perhaps there is no one nowhere to care about what he whispers.
However he seems to whispers something, it is being written.
And then he is standing still no more—he seems to be moving, perhaps—a hardly seen, almost unseen movement in the cloudy, drizzling, misty night—and so on—but he seems to tidy his coat up, and perhaps he does so—though it is possible he does not, because it is being written as dimly as that drizzling misty night which might or might not be qualified as a fucking night.
However it is somehow written, or so it seems, and so be it, whatever it is written because it is written, for what is there and everywhere and elsewhere and even nowhere but that was written and is being written?
So be that as it may be written, and so on and on, and writing on and on…