Red Thread(s)

--such as you've heard before, spoken before, dreamt of: a [ ] of voices, the rush of tone, things fall by the wayside, an afterthought precedes, a form of dyslexia, it happens more often at the extremes of the day, upon waking, or now, later, it’s too late, perhaps, to form a coherent line, tangles, then, one of many, like the waves, the hesitation, there, drawing back before the pulse, then, the tug of it, flow, the way things even out. Similar books are added to the pile of those unread, unbearable silence, silences, borne in common, contradictions, joyous, terrible, the thread spools, ravels a line, one ravels lines together or ravels them apart; if not splitting, then, certainly slipping, a loose thread pools into the curve of one’s hand, & the texture of it & the color of it, reminding you of something else again, entirely, and you drift off on a digression, for a moment, because you are happy, then reeling off like an idiot or a fool, whatever the right word is:
earnest and without apology, I would like to take a stand.

A bookstore sale led to me to finally purchase a hardcover copy of Kafka's Letters to Felice the other night... Examining the book later, at home, I realized that some previous owner had excised the first page, so that the first letter(s) were missing; the book, then, thus began:
"through them nor beyond them, and the only thing to do would be to throw away my pen, if my halfheartedness would let me. Nevertheless I did ponder over that letter, for I had by no means decided to write it, and of course these ponderings are the best way to prevent me from writing."