"it was a hotel room. Long and narrow, unnaturally long maybe." p.6
where it is time to stop dancing now and to resort to some sort of patient pacing. They had danced now for what had seemed an unending length of time, a length of multiple points multiplying ceaselessly. Trying to rethink this length, he notices they have often spoken less, literally. She of awaiting less, he of less again in ceaseless. He remembers the recurring un- of unheard unseen that is unknown. He thinks he remembers all this, recalls all this, recurrs some of these. In the room now he rests a few instants. Not rest really, just not dancing on his feet, just trying to unsee all he says in his head. He thinks of walks on the moors. He is unsure as to whether he ever walked them. That is the problem with hearing words he has seen on pages. He is sure he recalls the Soldier and Friend and the cider at Torre and Cynthia the pig. Not a pig of course but a sow but people don't make the difference anymore. She has spoken so that he has heard her read her and seen her on the page. She is no less real for existing on the page, nor more virtual. It all lies in the actual, in the actualisation of her. Sitting immobile he tires faster than if dancing. He wonders if she's going to sit down awhile too, or will she say 'come' again so that he be there again. He wants to dance again now. It is as if everything had speeded up since he sat down, he wants it all to slow down again, in the again slow dance of he and her. Of these two third persons becoming one. He keeps asking questions but would rather propose literal problems. That they may overlap again in their overlapping steps overlapping each other towards the one beyond, the step beyond overlapping the next. In the must again of process,
