A proof of truthful reading. That it’s still of me and that I live: Left out of and in crying, Its [story’s] departure by pain of death trespassing. Justly, so.
Every ending sentence of a subchapter was here a melancholy more punctuating Than all the statuses of things Coming and leaving, explaining better Than silence.
Lace in eyes/meshes of the numbers, In God’s notebook. Miracles of joy, of enigmas from Poetry Poured had been into the study In navy blue of mathematics.
The beige of rain of each dot At the end of each subchapter.
Now I know what the blank pages are for: Literature is a person, At their death you don’t leave them without a word, a touch. You leave, at least, an epitaph, with beloving or not. For at one time you both decided to bear with each other as one. You let each letter have and bear its part in your mind’s eye.
Every time you read: “My memory lasts 80 minutes.” Ellipsis.
Thank you ありがとう
Of Yōko Ogawa’s “The Professor’s Beloved Equation”. I couldn’t let go of all that love in mathematics, That devotion for the child. The legacy. Apprehension in realisation.
We just take it all from God’s notebook. Thank you Yōko. Thank you to that bookseller of Toruń who recommended it to my uncle for my birthday present. ありがとう