You will have read this before. What you'll find here is neither novel, nor revolutionary, nor challenging in any way. The reason I am so sure about this is because I did not write this. I sat on my balcony every night for a year straight, between nine and ten, to capture it. I plucked the words right out of the air, floating - nay, hovering - with the tranquility only the inanimate and immortal can afford.
You will have read this before; on the walls of toilets, in the liner notes of records or on the warrantry notices of household appliances. If it does not ring a bell so far that might be because you did not care much for it. Or more aptly put: the words did not impose themselves upon you. These are shy words, this is a shy story. There is a reason I took 365 days. The story passed by my house every day in full, but with every little disturbance the majority of the words fluttered away. Because these words already know they are everything, potentially, they don't have to be everything, actually. When caught by sheer force they will exhibit that same force to the reader, but when caught in the still of night, such as is the case at hand, they are museful and introspective.
You will have read this before, though perhaps unwittingly so. I wrote the words down here in the order that I hauled them into my apartment. If this piece then decrees that fate has an ear for grammaticality, all the better for it. I would like to add that it is of no consequence to me whether you believe any of this or not, for I am just the medium through which these concepts pass and have no stake in the message conveyed. Ultimately, it is on par with believing in universality and in eternal recurrence, in there being only one story in the world and us retelling it endlessly. You decide for yourself.
You will have read this before, fleeting as it is. How do you know once you remove your eyes from a text, that it remains the way you saw it when your gaze returns? Our memory is faulty, our senses subjective. After I am done copying these words down, I will set them free again, and they will set off to form a graffiti tag on the filthy walls of a forgotten factory, or be swallowed by a street preacher in the slumber of his somnolence. They are eternally malleable and infinitely useful and they always recur. If only for that, they are the envy of all of us fallible humans.
