So what are we, you and I? A living out, a non-disguise, a fatality?
You hold something deep within you, and you feel it pressing with tiny hands, an inside out, the opposite of lust. But when you focus, when you drive towards honesty and talk of people, the links and bridges, the houses we live in and the stalls we set, of mother and baby, I gasp in awe and hold closer.
Please don’t misunderstand me, you are all yourself, and I can be nothing more, not even on this premature summer’s day, fingers held rigid on the tabletop in your absence. Does my tawdry ambivalence frighten you? I am opening slowly like a can, sharp and plentiful, bouquets in the windows, looking into the yard flitting in the debris and hubris, like birds in deserts. I cannot maintain a time, consistency is the last resort of the unimaginative, and essays are the souls of buildings.