#on touching

    — Insisting tirelessly, someone is still repeating: at the moment of touch­ing your eyes with mine, like lips, is it daytime or are we already inhabiting our night? Still and always our first night always? Is there still room, place, space, or an interval, chōra, for the day's phenomenality and its diaphanous visibility?     For, like an image in a pupil, everything can also turn itself around, where it is not yet daylight, at the point where the origin of its possibility is dawning. As long as you haven't touched me with your eyes, as long as you haven’t touched my eyes, like lips, you won't be able to say “one day.” Nor “adieu.” Hello, goodbye, so long, take care of yourself, I pray that one day you’ll outlive me. But this prayer already shames me, as if I were also admitting that I'm afraid— afraid of being a survivor and bearing death. Because, to admit to one last resignation, I expect the only chance of a reconciliation with death, I mean to say my own, from the good fortune thus promised of no longer seeing those whom I have loved— like myself, more than myself— die.