Strange, too, to notice that no matter the smallness of the street, by which I mean how narrow it is as such circle or cycles are as long as our lives, that I can never find the same stall on it twice, ever again and despite following such directions as I beg openmouthed, despite counting my fingers to numbers I’m deluded to mean: and maybe because there are no wares on display in the stalls (everything, and I do mean everything, is kept under the counter, and one should be hesitant to ask, I’ve been asked), how there’re no signs to the stalls, no numbers either except those imposed by memory in its imperfect ars mathematica…the higher geometry of borderless politics, the containment of illimitable will within mundane circumference, the daily and done — no coordinates save those supplied by the worst and, presently, only philosophy left us, which is that of hope…in that, I’m an expert. And then advice, too, which is the only thing in this market given for free, and in a quantity scarily excessive: actually advice, directions, counseling’s comfort, though all with the aim to a profit of any sort to be made down the line, the length of which is infinite, mortality depending. Along the way the long way around, only the forgotten are to be met — not as much met as to be unforgotten, in advice, in directions, in their comforting counsel: the windword, the snuff or guttering pass, offered to me as to all in hushes, shushes, incomprehensible whispers; such menschs or goys who knows who they are if and when they even don’t, who can care, they prole around, go ghostly a float down the street and so around the moated float of that one uninterpretable sign: Spinoza, who’s he, what’s he got to do with assimilation, with the secularism that’s only adaptation, an evolution toward any new reality, with our governance remade…the intersection of individual life with that of the State, the interstices of mensch and God, and the meaning of what that God is exactly, if not merely the subtotal of us: me, you,
