Our hands were so small when they were shaking.
There is so much I could say right now...so many thoughts that would benefit from the clarity they'd receive when put down and, thusly, revised. Most of these things, though, feel more at home inside me...now that my creative energy has slowed down, stepped aside, and made room for them. January has been a ghost month. Hannah said that in the car last night after the wake. We both had tears rolling down our cheeks between deep, but silent, breathing. I couldn't agree more. I've been outside the definintion of day and hour - at home there is no reason to do anything but float. All the things that have occured were free to just mull over...and over in me. Last night I saw those things mulling over in the eyes of hundreds of near-strangers. Everyone has been swallowed by whatever this feeling is...this sinking, and sitting, like being buried in the snow - a constant pressure that you can't decide if it's too much and feeling the cold slip into your bones (this feeling is strongest inside, of course). I'm not sure what it is I am trying to say...well, I'm not really trying to say anything. I'm going to leave all this here, just to be, and say, what it has to say. Like last night. Like all the things that change us, immensely, everyday - that just speak for themselves. This whole process started before Tom...and I really want to be able to pin it to something. I don't know. Maybe it will pull itself from January shadows - separate itself from the other ghosts. Know that the love is still there, growing and being outstretched to each and every one of you. To that woman who stopped to ask me "Are you that poet?" last night, even while she was crying. To everything now and then and later. I'd name you - tell you what it is about you that inspires and electrifies and amplifies...but you already know. Like so many other things, you know.