Despite the closeness of your nose to the sheet of paper in front of you there is a blossoming of risk in this activity. There is time, piling up on the desk in front of you, falling in flickering pieces to the floor around your chair. Each mark that you make betrays your mortality. The corporeal hovers and the spiritual falls in flickering pieces to the floor. There is time. There is language, climbing into your chest. There is history, permeating and filling the air above your head. There is time, flickering in the spaces between your back and the floor. A silence that no one will ever hear. A light that climbs into your chest. This is a place, this is an activity, in which risk blossoms, swallows. This is time, the floor will always be there.