If I can be present to you, I say. To whom do I say it, since you are already present in the act of reading these words, these works, before my invoking you? I say it as in invocation towards someone who might appear, when you are already here. So I must be aiming my voice a little before you. And make no mistake, you are the you. I aim my voice a little before you and it falls short of you, before your shoes. Before your eyes. The eyes which end in yes. Accidents like this happen and we live inside them. The accidents themselves become our engines. I aim my voice before you and it is a sort of deference. Thank you for existing. For being finite. For bringing your doom with you into this room, the room of the book. Thank you. I want to run away from you, the thrill is so great. But I am grateful for your presence. Even though this membrane is between us. Can you feel it? It is this membrane for which I live and die. It is not even food. It is so real to me. But you could deflect the energy back. Through the membrane. You have this power. Always. I am the one waiting to read. In the act of writing I make myself the servant of the pingback. The way trees in the forest do. They are all listening, we sense. How can they be listening if they never speak, you may ask? But you know the answer. You are reading this sentence right now.