I looked at the words of these previous eyes, I realized they were painting, that I was looking at paintings, and I longed to paint too, so I decided to paint, starting with the eyes, lining them up, row after row after row, waiting for a grid to emerge from the clicking of the keys, realizing how much effort this would take, how here I paint with a certain precision, while when I paint with a brush I tend to fall into these broad strokes or leave a lot of white space, and there was a time when I was working in that form — "white space studies" — but I forgot about it, or perhaps it wasn't a forgetting but simply that I did not return and now I try to decide how much white space I would like to have here, only there is no such thing as a permanent brushstroke, I render the thing, I look at it, and I'm free to undo what was done if I so choose

but now I wonder how true that is, because a palimpsest is impossible yes, but there are still other eyes who can see in different ways, who could track down every key stroke, to see what was there, what was erased, what was re-arranged, what was forgotten, like the Derrida Macbook I lost last week.