(no subject)
i don't like french i've decided. it is like a bird that flutters restlessly and restlessly and with great necessity but refuses to settle and be examined and assume a human shape. every word rolls off the tongue like something accidental that was not meant to get out. it is like the smile of a playful lover that drags you by the left corner of their mouth but never brings you close enough and never lets go of you altogether. it runs away like a dry brush. it so delicate a language. but i would never give it up now that i have a piece of it because i would be slicing off the one arm i've grown whose fingers can touch and run against the skin of thousands and thousands, and oh the heartbeat you can hear, the terrific blare like a saxophone, and feel it tremor at its astonishing grandeur beneath. someday i would like six arms with spanish or eight if i come back here and blindly submerge myself in djerma. i want more arms and tongues than i know what to do with, and from the two grow a garden of ears, and the more tongues and the more arms, the more i can taste and touch and the more sounds can sink through my human soil, and the more permeable my skin becomes, only the more nourishment i can recieve.