'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Friday, August 12, 2005

There is so much elsewhere

When I etched at the surface I occupied this place with all of you, my hand jogged with your breakfast and butted up against your confusions and deceptions. I shaded as you wailed and I rubbed out as you smiled and alone, you catered to your pleasures as I carefully focused on this line or another for emphasis. My distance from you is calibrated at the edges.