At the piano, a body primed for everything to be born again, the fingered promise of return to that circular meeting place, where we no longer remember who we are, nor for whom we wept. We warm up our wind whipped hands, the skin gradually melting into wings, the blood into forests and rivers. This is how it starts, we see the morning from afar and wait for a face to be drawn for us.
I was thinking books are weightless. I mean, they float upon the understanding. Upon memory. Or even better: they are steady because they are not people. They have no nights, no insomnia. They have no sleep in them. I was thinking books are less complicated than us. Even when we run out of a line, of a word. Even when we can’t quite breathe. When I thought about that I had a vague notion of entitlement. And a pale breath wishing to be a page.
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