Where. Days go on beyond the want. In silent corridors they go on building—a what around the what-space that sits with silence and does exactly what it is—which is just nothing—and therein must go on beyond however you might think you’d make it stop. Without sleep the aggregate aggregates its aggregating aggregations into something at once speeding up and slowing down—beating unseen walls over to find behind them more walls, darker, flatter—spaceless secrets—and so then what then—there you are.“Almost all suicides, about ninety percent, say, are due to insomnia,” says E. M. Cioran. “I can’t prove that, but I’m convinced.” If nothing else, being awake too long surely could be seen as motivation for the mind state of the want for spilling one’s own blood, like a machine becoming overheated from extended usage, too many frictioning hours in too much light—gunk gathered on the gunk—the way skin changes over time in pictures, always worked upon instant to instant, any of them at once no longer yours, but given up unto something nameless.Any night there is all night.
