And this a preamble too

I don't think you just enter something or leave. i think you move in bit by bit. Get used to it. Feel it out. Sit a little deeper, or skate over parts. Fall flat on your face or move to the accompaniment of internal music that is then executed for all to see. To become credible. to create a reputation, a blog. A preamble. That does not then lead to the heart of the thing but is the very stuff itself. A preamble. respondant, sensitized. A co-authoring somewhere between the imprint on the bud of a finger and the slight depression of that key. In itself, nothing much. A mistake or the start of something. It's too early to tell. A preamble, that could go on and on and on, never amounting to any kind of closed chapter, but a flurry of possible connections, dispersing, being swayed, weeping and laughing at the chance encounter with a sentimental film, the body momentarily stiller, stored up only to break out again. A man in an upstairs flat guided by his baby in the street who chatters up at him in baby syllables and entices a response. The man, beside himself is all awash with the sound of it all. He is learning the beauty of the word-sounds in his mouth, unpinned from any referenace to particulars. He is in love with his baby daughter who engages him through the magic of non-words. Word-play. The preamble sets in . It gets going and nobody knows where it gets going to. I too was affected of course by that preamble, sitting in my flat with the windows open, the sound getting in on the air. That was earier, a preamble to this. And this a preamble too.