I feel that I’m beginning to understand how possible, how close, how achievable it is to go through life not saying anything to anyone, enveloped and lubricated by white noise. Like a puck on an air hockey table, not touching anything.
These human bodies: Are they our real lives, or do they have nothing to do with our real lives? Where is the real work done?
Today I sat on a bench in the park at the art museum in the cold and watched a minivan drive past. And I thought “there is a minivan driving past” but it wasn’t what I meant at all. That was not it, at all.
