Light Under the Skull

The heap of sheets I had place before me reduced to zero. Nil, nothing, the problematic origin of everything. Do I see ice-cold samples of reality? Do eye movements in the dark explain what images form under the skull? I mean: do they throw light on it? Or the contrary? Am I doomed to snapshots with where I have plenty of cones on my retina? Of this landscape I see some blossoms on a branch of an – after all – splendid cherry tree. Of your face I see the comma, on the right, next to the corner of your mouth.