and space cannot exist side by side, but only one inside the other.
You are right when you say time does not exist but deploys things:
time cannot be displayed, be outside, it cannot have a separate
dimension, even a "temporal dimension" (the space of the
soul); it would be a contradiction in terms. Death, for example, which
is deployed by time and is a non-measure of time, is disappearance,
a removal of space to an eternal elsewhere, an eternal visible; all
the signs left by time are signs of erosion, of things coming apart,
a loss of defined spatial distinction. Writing is a an omnivorous
fish a carp on the river bed, ready to proliferate where
time and space part company, opening the real into an estuary, not
an unhealthy polymeric, resolution of space? Unhealthy because tradition
has it that to admonish us it is also a supreme waste
If space is resolved, time is wasted: when I return to myself, after
quitting this paper and pen, I'll re-appropriate space within myself;
I will be a copy of myself and will return to a point from which I
did not set out. I will have left nothing behind but will find a self;
in the meantime I will have written this note, asking words to do
despite the logos something they cannot do.
You do not return to yourself: ever since mankind has had a language,
he has no longer returned to himself either by phylogenesis
A return to somewhere you've never been, completing something never
given: this is what copying really means.