There is a place in me that calls for words, or rather, there is a separate space that calls to be heard…. Like I am suffering from the Pangea of my inner components. But if they were to find each other, the clarity produced from their unity would be too much for the earth I stand upon. They would burst from punctuation… overflow the parenthetical footnote attempts to explain their truths. And still, be too much for pages overlooked and paperbacks singing silently from second-hand shelves. For now, it is enough to be here on this fleshy dirt beneath me. It is enough to pass by the dusty pages and listen for their call. Because in my ears, there are little waiters… who patiently linger for the right words, who jump and dance and call upon the rain when the dryspells become frighteningly familiar.
Today there are waves in the air that web the world, a computerized connection. A cheap imitation of what has always been possible. If we were to open up our senses, we could feel the woman next to us in the elevator, the men flying over us in stolen airplanes. We would know those through the walls, above the ceiling of our apartments, across the countries… those who walk in perpendicular paths, who balance the equator like tightrope walkers, who live within thoughts like ours, who walk on the valves of your midnight pulses, who feel the tightening of your veins in morning… who would know you and feel no shame.