I will read a text I will probably not read. I read and I don’t read. Hesitate. Read and stop. Stop and resume. Emphasize and punctuate. Stop and shake it. Hesitate.
                    Writing and talking is to hesitate constantly. To voice hesitation is to halt life to let thought pass. A river flowing on the same place but not flowing off it. A gurgling. A pool we splash in and look at our feet. A puddle where feet forget their body.
                    Hesitating made me arrive late to writing. Everyone highlights the late arrival.
                    Tardy, title of the forthcoming book. If I’m still on time, such was the announced threat. I struggle against time. Don’t we always? Who gives whom? Who has the right to point the finger? I will arrive late and at the right time, brittle cliché. For a long time, I used to go to bed late. I was immersed in sericulture. Arriving late into writing seems reproachable, arriving late to life bears no name. The unnamable. To equate writing and life is the hanged man’s noose. It’s not a metonymy. There are no figures of speech for being late. Only watches, calendars, and admonitions.
                    Tardy is tardy and even tardier.
                    I write books with a single word. Apocryphal books. Maggot-ridden books, holes in their skin, hesitations and leaps.
                    I haven’t started reading yet I’m already reading.
                    To hesitate – Latin word for the act of being perplexed.
                    No, in fact I am waiting for Samuel.