Absences of signs, of signification can be one of the most vexatious non-thing because they also mean a surplus of signs and signification, where they threaten to outrun and escape the sense which tries to contain it. In fact, the greater the absence, the greater the surplus.
I carry them with me wherever I go. However, upon reaching a fleeting sense of wholeness at a park bench, a habitual cafe or just about anywhere where space doesn’t matter as much as person, these surpluses disintegrate in accumulation. Amid stability, I think of Kundera’s notion of love epitomized by a shared sleep and seamlessly weave you into quotes before I spill them out again for discussion. There is a way you can disappear, where your thoughts are left suspended, emancipated from surpluses, which is to listen to the voice of your festivity, listen to its silence, the way it holds your hand.