The verso of representation, its shadow. I’m inside something awry, something taken from its own beginning. Your acrylic eye reminds me of a glowing blue bonfire. I’m not writing, not giving this a name. Insomnia is not a system. The pianoforte dispenses this emotion, pushing my chest uphill. No one has seen a painting’s eclipse, inside its breast. Your shadow reminds me of the twilight. I’m a loose system of tangled darkness. I’m writing to erase something, to regress somehow.