I was dreaming of a typewriter's tap, tap, tap,
realizing the rhythm of all writing was inextricable
from its form, its function, when my cloud eyes drifted
to muslin visions of Herr Walser's ponderous, pencil method,
inert in its torpid execution, but capturing every shuffled step,
each long look, along a walk across a timeless Swiss landscape,
the languorous beating of all the hearts no longer capable of hope.