(no subject)
I.
What you love chooses you. Or, in my case, doesn’t. You are somewhere in Prague, you drain a cup of coffee. That seat across from you holds a certain weight. We are composing a Greek tragedy, it involves the production of masks. Trees make a sound like shuffling papers. Around you, a gouging white. Around you, what. Their memoirs are in various stages of completion and all start with the same phrase. In the afternoon I find shade close to the ground, I pull flowers from the trees. We are composing a Greek tragedy, it calls for the separation of a minotaur into its biological components. White is the color of an absence or a wall. Though you are dispersed. Even now, there are mornings when I wake up and find your sentences strewn among mine, reminded that words are immune to the logic of distance. We are composing a Greek tragedy, it involves the voluntary loss of sight. Magnolia blossoms smell strong and white and they have something hard in the center. That lacunae can pile up so densely. Severing the stem from the branch makes a sound like biting into an apple. That lacunae can pile up. Flowers are preludes to a great wilting, though these may already read as epitaphs. Separated from itself, the sound of something swallowed and sweet.
What you love chooses you. Or, in my case, doesn’t. You are somewhere in Prague, you drain a cup of coffee. That seat across from you holds a certain weight. We are composing a Greek tragedy, it involves the production of masks. Trees make a sound like shuffling papers. Around you, a gouging white. Around you, what. Their memoirs are in various stages of completion and all start with the same phrase. In the afternoon I find shade close to the ground, I pull flowers from the trees. We are composing a Greek tragedy, it calls for the separation of a minotaur into its biological components. White is the color of an absence or a wall. Though you are dispersed. Even now, there are mornings when I wake up and find your sentences strewn among mine, reminded that words are immune to the logic of distance. We are composing a Greek tragedy, it involves the voluntary loss of sight. Magnolia blossoms smell strong and white and they have something hard in the center. That lacunae can pile up so densely. Severing the stem from the branch makes a sound like biting into an apple. That lacunae can pile up. Flowers are preludes to a great wilting, though these may already read as epitaphs. Separated from itself, the sound of something swallowed and sweet.