that Anne Carson wrote for her brother, the epitaph, ... I was trying to find a name. 

a name for new project, a photographic project. I have never, in fact I have avoided photoing
people | as much as I have avoided proper names, in places. Places... as Carson writes, Places in

         the world where we saw things.                               In places I've not a-

voided it at all and that is because in those places the people have died. , so reading on
I made the following notes                                              in case something
   
jumped out.                        It hasn't happened yet.

Anne Carson: I didn’t know the for ld print black on the film did you? /and: it is for God to fix the time who knows no time /and: the sheets of memory blow on the line /: a room, where one gropes for the light switch. /in the face if [sic] what has just been said/: the word, discandied, melted, … /:haec adversaria sunt menstrua illae aeternae these adversities are monthly, those eternal. /:As in some cave may lie a lightless pool./: omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat the whole pointless night seeps out of the heart. /: ave … (on sepulchral monuments) now it is night. /: …[something] [something] the stairwell [where he was when his mother with her hands crying What now oh what now?]

Si pour un fois de nouveau le regard bleu dans le sac rempli de poussière–je parle de moi, j’ai le droit–cette attente, cette patience–si pour une fois de nouveau–qui me comprend?–je pale des jouets brisés, je parle d’un sac noir, je parle d’une attente, je parle de moi, je peux le faire, je dois le faire. Si tout ce que j’appelle ne vient pas une seule fois encore quelqu’un devra rire, quelqu’un devra fêter une blague atroce–je parle de la lumière sale qui courre à travers la poussière, les yeux blue qui patientent. Qui me comprend? Une seule fois encore la petite main entre les jouets brisés, le regard de celle qui attend, écoute, comprend. Les yeux bleus comme une réponse à cette mort qui est à côté de moi, qui me parle et c’est moi. Si pour une fois de nouveau mes yeux terrestres, ma tête enfoncée dans un sac noir, mes yeux bleus qui savent lire ce qui exprime la poussière, sa lementable écriture. Si pour une fois encore.

— Alejandra Pizarnik

If for once again the blue gaze inside this sack full of dust–I speak of myself, I have the right–this expectation, this patience–if for once again–who understands me?–I speak of broken toys, of a black sack, of an expectation, I speak of myself, I can do it, I ought to do it. If everything I call doesn’t come to me just once again, someone will have to laugh, someone will have to toast with an atrocious joke–I speak of dust riven with sullen light, blue eyes patiently marking time. Who understands me? Just once again the small hand among broken toys, regard of her who waits, listens, understands. Blue eyes as a response to this death right next to me, which speaks to me and is me. If for once my earthen eyes, my head stuffed in a black sack, my blue eyes which can read what dust scrawls, its pathetic handwriting. If again each time.

— trans. Forrest Gander