of writing—always a clean slate, never
knowing what I’ll end up saying! Who’s there
to say something in the first place? Knock on
knowing what I’ll end up saying! Who’s there
to say something in the first place? Knock on
the
ice-etched window pane, peep in through the
shutters. There you see the ego at bay,
nursing its wounds and buffing its limbs. It
dimly understands it’s a beautiful
shutters. There you see the ego at bay,
nursing its wounds and buffing its limbs. It
dimly understands it’s a beautiful
animal,
with a bent towards beauty—an
eagerness about the loving regard
of others—with so much always left unsaid—
unsaid, because, what would mother say?
eagerness about the loving regard
of others—with so much always left unsaid—
unsaid, because, what would mother say?
I
don’t want to say either Fuck you or
I love you, just let the writing happen.
I love you, just let the writing happen.
