The red strip is not a tongue or fire. I try to imagine it without
the white strip above it. Or the green blocks. What is the red strip without anything else? Agnes said suffering is necessary for freedom from suffering. Maybe the yellow strips are suffering. See how far away they are? Always distant but always there. Or maybe they are language, in how we can
still see the yellow on the periphery when we look at the red in the middle. I want to pull the yellow closer but maybe I
should push it away. What am I outside of language? Is this the solitude Agnes spoke of—standing in an auditorium without a microphone or an audience, at a podium reading wind. And where the skin that has been wound tightly around me my whole life, is also the thing that I’ve been
writing on. To think, everyone will write one final word.