It will never happen, that's what this day says to me. Never - but what, what isn't to happen? Behind every word here - or ahead of them, far out ahead like a sail: the 'project' - is that the word? I don't like that word. The project - something thrown out ahead. A fishing net? Can a sail be thrown out ahead? Ahead and catching the wind, dragging everything here behind it?
Now I imagine the spread parachute like sail of the land yachts that race along the sand. Ahead - but it's not even real, I don't think it's real. Ahead and uncertain, yet dragging everything along: what. 'I have a project': so says the character in Godard's Eloge de l'amour. Red Thread(s) quoted that a long time ago, just that, the character (Edgar?) saying, 'I have a project'. But do I have one? It will never happen, that's what this long drooping Sunday says to me. You'll never do it, never complete it. But what? Complete what?
This is it, I want to say. These words are what it is, and nothing beyond them. And yet the sense that there's a kind of shadow that they belong to. That their real sense lies beyond them, to something that has already happened, and can only make sense in that way. Ruined words - remnants - but from some disaster that will happen in the future, not the past. That is gathering itself in order to happen. That sucks the air away from the present as a tsunami is said to do, drawing the air into itself before the wave crashes on the beach.