from The Watchers
The world is full of spaces.
In the shadows, in the stories, where the words begin, lies the space where magic is made. To summon monsters from the air alone, to spell the world to dreamless sleep, to change the stasis of the day to day. The spaces, in stories, where life can be somewhat rewritten. You read, not only the lines, but the spaces between them too. The great unknown, the half-way house of white sullied by implications. The story's source, and its darker beating heart. The centre of the mirror world.
You live out your mind's life in spaces, watching the shapes they chose and the way words twist, change and transform them. The shadows moments of the day to day, of human interaction. The moment when you, when they flicker at their weakest. There are may spaces, many shadows, in human relationships. Cordoned off, separated, divided by what they dare not say. By the words they brush away.
You pass upon the stairs, you and her, and for a moment your fingers touch. For a moment electricity flicks, faint, a light bulb debate, but then the switch is left untouched. You both look away, move aside, slipping from the story to the spaces between. They stretch across your lives, right through the words I write. All fresh, untarnished by clumsy, stumbling human words. All, deceptively, white.