Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

A house cannot have more than two or three stories.

(__) wrote the words I build stories with.
(__) played the accent that swims in my mouth.

(__) dreamt a path I wouldn’t have treaded on my own.

Adored, because I cannot reward. 

Loved, because I don’t know the rest. The reaping of the field.

Alarmed or Disarmed? 

Even if it is the end, this is where I begin.

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