His attitude toward writing changed when he decided to renounce content.
It was then that he began to treat people like experiments.
He would jot down every single word that occurred to him.
Yet no sooner did he take a pen in his hand than it became a torpedo to him.
First, he had a constant feeling of having forgotten something.
Then he would repeatedly experience déjà vu.
Ideas came to him like pieces of luggage on a conveyor belt.
In his notebook he wrote: Use words like ‘torpedoes.’
He sat at his computer, generating word strings.
He visited museums, full of spoils of war, broken plates, headless torsos. . .
“Is writing a natural act?” “Are you open to experiments?” “What’s on the menu?”
He did not wish an egg or, for example, a torpedo.
Walking through an airport terminal, he experienced the joy of multiplicity.
No, he murmured, that was just another déjà vu.
What’s a poet in search of a style? A semitransparent eyeball.
In his notebook he wrote: Use words like torpedoes.