First there is a yak. This is not an origin story; nothing comes after the yak; there is only the yak. The yak turns around & walks & turns around & walks, back & forth through the nothing else, & in what might be called circles were there circles, but only there is the yak. There is not the snow dusting the yak’s shoulders & horns. There is not the buttery moon melting over the pumpernickel night. The yak looks: nothing. The yak listens: nothing. But the yak is not lonely. Loneliness is a comparison & there is nothing with which to compare. There was the yak & now there is the yak, each as the other was & is. There will not be a small bird introduced, a small green bird who sits on the yak’s horns & eats the bugs that gather to drink from the yak’s lake-y eyes, for there are no bugs at the yak’s lake-y eyes, & the yak’s eyes are not lake-y, as no lakes. There is only the yak who though traveling great distances appears to be moving in place. & when the yak sleeps, it dreams of the yak. & when the dream-yak dreams, it dreams of the yak who dreams it. Everything begins & ends in the yak, even the yak, who cannot remember beginning, but if the yak did begin, it would have been on account of the yak, & should the yak end, it will be on account of the yak, of some whim of the yak—but for now, there is no such yak-whim. There is only the certainty of yak in what must be space in what must be time, but have here no names, have here only the operation of providing a distinction between yak & not-yak. For the not-yak is endless & frightening. For the not-yak is beyond comprehension. & so the yak does not attempt to comprehend the not-yak. & the not-yak does not attempt to comprehend the yak. They are simply together, held in place by something else, the only other thing that is, which is not the yak & not the not-yak, but a not that can’t be named, because it’s not nothing, & it’s not not nothing, & it loves the yak very much, as evidenced by this fact: the yak will never wonder if it is or is not there.

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