He told me:
writing is a way to slow down thinking,
to drawing primitively
the face of faceless beings,
the fingers of pure touching-
the one that was before the creation of fingers and things.

O, you, speed,
heart in balance,
pushing the migration
of the nations cells
both red and white.

Heart, you, the fastest,
heart, you, goddess of magnets!

They've cast your face in bronze
and one in iron,
but the bronze is melodious, and the iron
agile enough is.

They've cast your face in stone,
but the stone is cowardly,

and hides within it
births of armless statues.

They've cast your face in words,
they painted you heart
and gave you the form of an A.

He told me:
writing is a way of slowing down thinking,
a pimitive way of understanding, of stoping the thought's movements.
The writing resembles alike with a metal snare,
that catches within a live fox
and moving
and struggling
and dieing of the fear of death.

I told him:
there are many forests and I'm hungry,
that's why I made A,
the divine snare.

I told him:
I've set my traps at the begining of the forest,
out of A and out of A.
Now I stand not too far
and I wait for the catching of my food.

He heard me. He stayed quiet.