i don't know what to think of k. first i said i don't know what to make of k. then i wonder why i should think i am to make something of k. i wonder what k. is to make of himself. i was afraid i'd see that picture of k. beaten in front of the curtain sitting on the gurney. the somber bruised face of abjection. when i look at that picture what am i seeing? am i seeing k. or me, or a frightful conflation of our faces. is that face the inward one? i didn't see the face of k. in my dreams. in truth i did not think of k. until i woke and thought about not seeing that face that haunted me before bed. i saw the face of k. thinking of why i didn't the face (i think of the face, not k.) in dream. i didn't hold the face of k. i wasn't visited that way. i worried about k. what would happen in my empathy. is it even empathy? or fear. but the face of k. waits for me. not like a spectre, or ghost, but...it waits.
i woke thinking, k. is like a lightning rod, he seems to draw this violent energy. and since we live in a human universe of violent constellation, i must perforce think on these things. i must now return to the face of k. the face of abjection. the human lightning rod that withstands the lightning bolts. the human weather. i have always been a dark one. the darkness constellates. the darkness makes lightning. k. is a picture of harm's way. how we must endure the lightning. how we must try to look upon, and stay, out of harm's way.

 still it is the face. still it waits for lightning.