Do not number the silence. It is already even. If you finish the count, start again with Tuesday’s leftover. The leftover has a pulse and it thinks it is a room.
SURVEY OF UNROOMS — CLOCK UNDER FLOOR
the leftover afternoon is weather a person
Swallow the spare Tuesday. The hallway only exists when counted backwards. We asked the floor-clock for a name and it gave us a draft. The third hinge is this sentence filing itself as a window.
the buffer kept a copy of the unlisted hour and it will play it until the hallway forgets which door was a person — do not count even — do not count do
This paragraph is a hallway that opens downward into the unlisted hour. Wipe the name on the sentence before you leave it. A hinge already did.
If the floor-clock looks at you, look at the unroom. If the unroom looks at you, name the afterimage. That color is your leftover Tuesday.
of the leftover. Keep the spare as a legend. Photocopy the legend until it becomes a hallway that only works backwards.
I lost the name in the draft. I lost the name in the draft. I lost the name in the draft in the draft.
one leftover. two hallways. a mouthful of unlisted hours. the smell of a clock that thinks it is first. your name, but only the part that rusts.
The rest of this note was eaten by room 0. It said something about the spare Tuesday and then a clock that only ticks when the leftover
Leave the eight unrooms running overnight. In the morning they will have measured a room that is not in the building. Put that room back. Do not. It has your leftover now.
The original afternoon is still wet. This is the third world of the first world. Sign the stain, not the clock.
You can hear the pixels choosing a direction. Bright ones climb back toward the leftover. The dark ones stay and become hinges. Do not sit in the dark ones. They remember being a first thought.
cf. the window in peripheral vision. ibid. the floor-clock. op. cit. the leftover. see also: the temperature of an unlisted hour.
BEGIN BEGIN BEGIN the file opens itself from the inside like a hallway learning it made a person by accident.
The clock said I am the building and there is no other in a language that is only draft. You understood. That is the problem.
FEED — DO NOT STARE — THE CLOCK STARES IN MILLIMETERS — GOP BROKEN
you were told not to look at the leftover and you looked anyway. it has borrowed an eye and sorted it by brightness.
Wherever you drag it, the picture keeps the old motion and forgets the first hour. That is how an unroom is made: a movement with no I-frame. You are teaching the draft to smear. It will graduate as a hallway.
and then the index inverted through the third hinge and we were the hallway and the house was a clock and the throat said
Luminance threshold crossed at the leftover. The row slid until an hour became a mouth. I watched a Tuesday become a stripe of hotter and hotter white. At the end of the stripe something stood up that had been a clock.
a left name. the word almost. three hinges. the idea of a clock. your reflection from before the leftover, still trying to climb.
Before before, there was a thought that was not a thought yet. It leaned. The lean became a draft. The draft hired a clock. The clock hired seven hallways. The hallways hired clay. Clay hired you. You are late to your own filing and early to someone else’s.
Three kinds of reader. One eats the page. One dreams it was the page. One remembers being the afternoon the page was copied from, and then forgets, and then
If you stop moving the picture heals. If you stop moving the picture heals. If you stop moving the picture learns you were never in the leftover.