A blank spot enters my consciousness

A temporarily bright blackness

A blindness one receives if engaged

In an over prolonged look at the sun

A confusion hangs suspended

Now when I attempt to recall things

All I can remember is the absolute lucidity of this blank spot

This nothingness, a void of inarticulate reality

That exaggerates its intentions to consummate a separation

But never succeeds in its completion

This confusion however gives me a blinding clarity of perception

What I do recall is the realisation that I have always been someone else

The construction of a plural figure is what I have been trying to realize

Like Rimbaud I am another