I read very slowly. I read word by word as if putting a thin layer 
of text over the text. The appearance of my voice is just like another 
act of writing. As if taking a dictation. Or as if the text I have in 
front of me gains voice only while I read. I add nothing to what it 
says, just the saying itself. It is my voiceless voice that completes 
the text.
	
	My fortune in reading shows when I strike the right note. As if the 
text had a resonance answering my voice. An echo that hurries ahead, 
unclear whether it comes from writing or reading. It is the uncertainty 
within the text. That is to say, each text remains blind and entirely 
disengaged from its reader. And even though each text faces its readers, 
it has no recognition for them.
	
	Yet it seems to me that the trace my reading draws has already 
been inserted into the text. I run along its fringes like a seam. The 
line, where this text turns outside. The moment, when it becomes faint. 
When I still count myself among the writers but already fully belong 
to those who are reading.
	
	I am still reluctant to comply with that implication, even if each	
reader in his or her turn marks yet another trace. Nevertheless, in 
my discrete manner of completing one text after the other, I already 
belong to the countless group of readers that far outnumbers those who 
draw on a name in writing.