Dear reader

You are reading me.
I am writing you you are reading me. You are writing me I am reading you. This is just the beginning of an extraordinarily proficuous confusion.
I could write I love you but I shall not but I did. This is the last time you read me. You are my last reader. Absolutely. I do not know what this means. But, whatever it may be, I mean it all and I mean also something radically different. Beyond the text. And I appeal to a rebellion among the cells of your body.
You are my last reader. I do mean all possible meanings of 'my', 'last', and 'reader'. Maybe I shall become infinitely illegible and I shall be the first one not knowing how to read my writing. Anyway, I write without aiming at any possible reading. I have been studying some of the most intelligent rivers in my planet and they, too, are writing continuously without without without. Whatsoever.
Even yesterday, it was the same. Exactly the same. The truth is the same, whether from a boat, a bridge or just from my body - cruelly in motion at rest. And you were there, because there is no river that flows without foregrounding You and backgrounding You and ... You.
Yet, you have just repeated a past participle three times, three times, three times. It leads nowhere, whereas all rivers flow somewhere. All their geography is about desiring time-space, charting desire and sailing on it. As long as you keep writing on the margins of the texts, I remain illegible. From the margins to the open chest of the text through the whiteness of drums hidden between the lines... this is the movement of meaningful flowing.
Only then, can the mouth open waves of silence, those rare ones which are the closest to music. Only after that silence, is music the most natural idiom of love.