to play perchance to...

<p>to drift —</p><p>perchance to dream.</p><p> </p><p>In which one can never quite tell if a thought that comes to one came from one had arrived onto one or if one might have merely slid to it drifted into it.</p><p> </p><p>Where one can never quite know if one is responding to works — to the beautiful pieces brought forth by Priyageetha Dia Anne Dufourmantelle Gabriela Golder Mariela Yeregui Jacques Tati — or if one is writing onto them speaking over them.</p><p> </p><p>Or if the works might have written themselves onto me into me have been guiding the hand (<em>manus</em>) which thinks it is have been leading the scribe who imagines he is inscribing onto the manuscript.</p><p> </p><p>Where the very notion of <em>having a thought</em> might well only be <em>thought teasing one</em>. And where <em>teasing out a thought</em> always already opens one self to being teased.</p><p> </p><p>But perhaps we are always only — can only ever be — playing.</p><p> </p>