II. The Mortal
“the handwriting each one of us will use to compose his own list of ‘things that quicken the heart,’ to offer, or to erase. In that moment poetry will be made by everyone, and there will be emus in the ‘zone.’”
Twenty degrees Celsius.
Change.
Thirty degrees Celsius.
Change again.
Forty degrees Celsius.
Change again.
Change again.
If water had memory, they travel through different age, different format. Stepping in Rudas Bath is somewhat fearsome.
Yes, I fear you. You put me on an altar now and I couldn't move. There are three marble tables, I was naked, lay on my back. So he came, like a shaman, white muslin cloth wrapped around his waist. He was in his glasses, gaze as sharp as an unforgiving blade.
Believe me, I fear you. It is like a spinning totem at the edge when it reaches it end of momentum. It loses control, its sporadic centre.
“I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous.”
Yes, I have dreamed of your so much that you are no longer real. An air of finality, as though no new dust could be added on it. Annie Dillard's writings translated in Chinese were fascinating: 'Micrometeorite dust can bury you, too, if you wait: A ton falls on earth every hour. Or you could pile up with locusts[...]' Although we all know our proses are not trying to change anything but experience. Between lines and paragraphs, the sad girl's poetry is almost cathartic, detaching, oscillating oneself, constructive ambiguity.
Between paragraphs, why is there a blank space formed into a shape of silence?
