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I enter the morning light, dream hanging on, vagueness, mist. Water upon my face. Habits practised. I walk lightly to the kitchen, look around, feeling my way into daylight, a waft of air through the open windows, maybe a draft, a breeze. I look out the window the Plane tree leaves are still, silent.

A number comes to mind, a year in my life, a number of images in a photomovie sequence, a symbol I saw in a book. That in that number, that symbol. I didn't seem to see the written number, I saw the things, myself, some pictures, and these things in the kitchen, and another photomovie came to mind. This awareness, consciousness, perception, a slo-mo.

I wonder about a word to slowly riff around, a word, after an image, a sense, feeling.
A word, a sound, a symbol, a rhythm of day.

Or a symbol to riff around, that 'A' which is a 6. Just a number. To explore form, how things are and how things appear.

Lines, drawn, symbols, signs, to riff around, maybe some words; 'habit', 'movement', 'place'.  I was going to say you choose, like picking a card from the pack, a number, a symbol, a Jack, a Joker. These games, of old.

The pack of cards fell, a word 'line' turns up, an accident, a random event, serendipity. Don't know. But.

How about a riff - this practise of playing, with the rhythms of language? No guitar, no piano to play with, but these instruments of language may be. Just 'line'.

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