WIDE, the margin between carte blanche and the white page. Nevertheless it is not in the margin that you can find me, but in the yet whiter one that separates the word-strewn sheet from the transparent, the written page from the one to be written in the infinite space where the eye turns back to the eye, and the hand to the pen, where all we write is erased, even as you write it. For the book imperceptibly takes shape within the book we will never finish.

There is my desert.

Edmond Jabes

Cafe et Creation

From Godard's "2 or 3 Things I Know About Her" (link)

A Tomb for Anatole (excerpts) by Stephane Mallarme

              37.

time of the 

                  empty room

--           

           until we

                         open it

perhaps all

                        

                         follows from this

                    (morally)

                   190.

                no--I will not

give up

             

               nothingness

          

            ------

                        

                         father -- -- -- I

              feel nothingness

                  invade me

Catacombs Paris

"... It delighted me that bodies could be used to decorate a room, like flowers."  
Paul Thek