pulpy flesh, feather lashes.

Q.
What is the history of one’s love? He composes a letter, licks the folds, seals his voice shut and inside the pressed envelope he has recapitulated a dream, a dream of her. Is that love, or perhaps, the origin of romanticism? The way the woman mends the sweater that warms her. How does it feel to be touched? The woven fabrics stretched like skin across flesh. Does love start at the birth of every person mending figures into their skin?

Q.
Stars splinter the violet skies pitched low. The world flips upside down, as you stare up, watching clouds carried across your melon eyes. The soft bedding falls and hangs upon your lashes. In the wind, stillness lingers, and you cry out against it with the hope you will help it be moved. But your very words get pushed back into your throat and are kept there to unravel like a ball of thread, a knot of knowledge.

Q. On Account of Myself/On Behalf of Us Both
I must! For it is time, I say, I introduce another character to speak with me.

Q. Consolation of Writing
The comfort comes from observing ourselves, acting upon our thinking mind, preserving a passing self, seeing that we exist—knowingly.

A. The writer must observer continually.
Q. And what is it the writer observes?
A. The writer observes himself when he is not writing and when he is writing.

Writing moves us into a perspective of ourselves, that forces us further than just simply thinking.

Q. The discourse between the mind and her eye
I am captured, captivated, by this never attaining demand to know it all. The child in me is back on the scene of my more adult life. Demanding growth through knowledge. I am astounded by how much my work has aged, matured, strengthened in one year from merely using my eyes to read, my mind to store.

Q. For we create our own misfortunes and they bear our own fingerprints.

The body of the written subject takes form of its own life—wanting to control its own conscious and decide it own actions. Struggling to disengage itself from the wrappings of the sentences, the bindings of the text.