Forms are born of an open hand.
But there is one that is born of the closed hand,
of the most intimate concentration of the hand,
of the closed hand that is not and will not become a fist.
Man is embodied around it
like the last fibre of the night
engendering the light that coincides with the night.
With this form
perhaps the conquest of zero would be possible,
the radiation of the point with no remainder,
the myth of the void in the word.