447 words once a day, every day, will make the doctor come & visit and say, “Hello again,” & you will nod with grimace, he knowing you & you knowing him, & he representing all of the stories once & outwardly told, you there now breaking through & *unleashing* in a sense, & though this is new territory & a new site, you will work through it & accept what is coming. You will accept the absence of K120 and the blessing you know it has received, and that those keys aren’t these keys & this space isn’t that space. And only a slight hesitation is had here, in this new realm, temporarily, if nothing else than this is a timed event. We will time each one. This having lasted for at least a minute with altogether too many pauses & too little direction & too little presence. There are feelings here. I feel distant. I feel forced. This feels forced. 163 words. Stanley sleeps to my right, stones scatter in front. A glass of chocolate milk to my left, already drank. To the left of the empty glass, a sip left, is the K120 buried underneath the A500 wrapped in B20 headphones. The A500 case is partially disassembled. The tablet is exposed. Two identical statued men are posed to think for eternity, just north of the mobile setup. A lamp sits on a 7 minute hourglass. 239 words, untimed. I will time the remaining, “and they will see.” We will show the world. At this point typing is painful, or its beginning to feel painful. I close my eyes. I am breathing in and out. I feel anxious. I change the style of music to “Meditation.” I partially completed a visual body of art one hour earlier. The only time I time is when I am untimed. A project closes on Wednesday. The Progression remains open. Stanley is sleeping on top of my V37. That project too will close soon. The 47287s will host it. Only about 90% of my number usage actually makes sense. It’s not that I’m trying to complicate things. The other 10% used to be known, a language revealed in a striking kind of way, that one time, that one time that has now passed & is beginning its distance from me. I’m like an old veteran talking about the war he or she fought many years ago as if it happened yesterday prenoon. This is no war. Like he said, “I want to make love to art, I don’t want to make war with it,” to which everything agreed & disagreed simultaneously in shared time. The first of many or few, many few many few. many few.