Like when Nabokov wrote “Again, I must have been wrong, twice.”

Danilo Danilo,

Sitting at the table in the caravan, I find a note from the other night that says *write to Danilo, and then a further *write to Danilo note from the other other night. Writing to you has become a twofold thing. A double vision of two of everything. Temper, temperamental poetry. And, two nights like these. When I’m so tired, I am already asleep. I’m not really here, typing. I’m not really here, typing. Wait. I typed that. Already. Like when I used to have waking dreams. Like when I used to eat dirt, I was walking in. Like when something was not anything again. Like when the most real thing I’d seen was one dream dreaming of another dream. Like when I wore out the night. The other. Night. Like. Tonight. Wore out. Me. Like the thought of falling over a thought of falling over.  Again, for the first time. For the first time, again. Like. What you’ve written. I like. What you’ve written. 

Night, night.

Ana

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