As an isolated 4 year old living in southern Italy, in the backwaters of Brindisi, in a country hunting chalet off of San Andreas Road, I used to spend most of my days alone. I had to amuse myself and one of my principal activities was writing. Filling sheets and sheets of paper but also the window panes when it grew cold enough and my breath would fog the panes, with cursive scribbles. The scribbles were all neatly lined up and each word had a meaning.
I return regularly to writing lines. It is the favored punishment of school mistresses and masters, to invoke our broken souls by having us copy out lines that end by losing any meaning. As if in the repetition in 500 or the multiplication by a 1000, we lost ourselves.