Let's undo another button, shall we? Reading and re-reading the one who is most helpful. We who take too much for granted, get our signals crossed. The lost moon, livid roses. There are many ways to be grateful, choose one and get on with it.
Something unworkable. Making Dad an ash tray and Ma a wine glass back in second grade ceramics. Who is lost, who is found, and who cares about the distinction? Perhaps we are bookmarks, vaguely aware of the text and its reader, ourselves signifiers but without meaningful agency. I'm hungry and getting hungrier.
The old problem of not knowing the difference between her mind and her body, and so wanting to fuck her is not different from wanting to spend night after night in dialogue with her. Rules by which therapists chisel away at their own effectiveness. It's easy to say that truth is true, but there's another level, the level of understanding. The speaker who remains silent despite our pleas. Upended plans, our hearts forever adjusting.
Stages of undress both inner and outer. Jogging in the park near dawn, cottontails bounding away. When at last we are beyond either winning or losing, what do we see? The light only appears to be seamless. And with that, this.