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Imagine distraction this complete, can you just? What about cold hands? What about heavy feet, stamping to believe in their own presence, but can't quite? What about questions being their own answers--where is there space for that?

Consider the weight of a fitful sleep, for instance. Where are we when we're in between? And how is dissatisfaction this complete if what we think we want is the truth? (What else is there!?) Fuck that: where we go has nothing to do with destinations; where we're from has nothing to do with time. Momentary and fleeting truth is not of inherently less worth--its fallback is quarantined in the limits we put on how much value we're willing to expend, as if supply could be just so & not a calculated decree. As if we weren't unequivocally aware of our intentions and ever-willing to deny them, entirely, a voice of distinction.

How do you create the context that will hold yourself still? This isn't about love! Not exactly. It's about willingness. “Oh--but it doesn't have to reflect anything besides itself,” says the mirror of the reflection.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/9/06)