Goya painted on the walls of his house in Quinta del Sordo.  Suffered deafness and bizarre behavior.  [Later thought from lead paint as his portrait figures turned to war.]  There were  i n t e r r u p t e d   m e s s a g e s in the opening of the book. The entering and breaking apart its pages.  As storms at sea will do.  But referring to the task of book is not the writing.  No, the making of the book is the prow and aft.  Its mast.  Bulwark.  Billage.  O, we are making w o r d s for the book.  Its ballast.  A siege of which the carrier is.  The task of printing a book.  No painting a book.  I tell Goya we are at war now.  He is holding the brush too close to his mouth.  The smaller brush for the thinnest letters in black but it is the wider brush for the lead of the lead-white pages.  O, you know a book.  How it is covered with a cover.  And all that is inside has to be opened as a pomegranate.  Its seeds falling slowly out.