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It's a story of little girls who are pressed into working in sweat shops in games, who spend all day doing repetitive grinding tasks like making shirts, which are then converted into gold and sold on eBay.

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Edmond Jabes

God, on the other side of my table, composes His book whose smoke envelops me: for the flame of my candle is His pen.

Book, Burning, Candle, Composes, Flame, Flames
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Through the ear, we shall enter the invisibility of things.

Ear, Ears, Enter, Invisibility, Things

We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.

Distance, Emptiness, Numbness, Severed, Speak, Word

It is very hard to live with silence. The real silence is death and this is terrible. To approach this silence, it is necessary to journey to the desert. You do not go to the desert to find identity, but to loses it, to lose your personality, to be anonymous. You make yourself void. You become silence. You become more silent than the silence around you. And then something extraordinary happens: you hear silence speak.

Death, Journey, Real, Silent, Speak, Terrible

WIDE, the margin between carte blanche and the white page. Nevertheless it is not in the margin that you can find me, but in the yet whiter one that separates the word-strewn sheet from the transparent, the written page from the one to be written in the infinite space where the eye turns back to the eye, and the hand to the pen, where all we write is erased, even as you write it. For the book imperceptibly takes shape within the book we will never finish. There is my desert.

Book, Eye, Margin, Pen, Reading, Separates

One rose is enough for the dawn

Beauty, Dawn, Enough, Rose
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