Longing for the one it can never meet, the wind travels in curving paths through the world seeking, as it does, its equilibrium of numb existence. And though it seems like it’s been happening forever, this merely happens to be the time in the universe’s history in which it is happening in this way. Things will change sooner or later, and the wind will cease to blow, having no further need of enacting its pageantry of lack. This is the atmosphere in which we move about, and in which we think about it and other things. Conceiving of the empty space where thoughts happen and where we move about, only thinking about it without the wind—which is merely the event of the lack attempting to surpass(/suppress) itself, that is, to lack itself, and in so doing fully become itself, which is a thing which can never be—seems to me to be a doomed exercise, like trying to imagine movement without space, contradicting logic. Wind is how a hole fills itself with a hole, through the event of one hole falling into another. It is only from the point of view of an observer that one hole can be categorized as falling-into and one as fallen-into. Conceiving of the empty space where thoughts happen and where physical motion happens as the same space, well, it’s like thinking not of the effects of wind, but of the wind itself, always here and always gone. That’s why, I believe, we think the way we do about the wind, with words that slip off of one another like visions of night coming to visit day, but always just missing the date.