Meanwhile Music Pounded / Across

Sometimes I Dream A Sentence And Write It Down. It’s Usually Nonsense, But Sometimes It Seems A Key To Another World.

What Would It Be Like To Live In A Library Of Melted Books. With Sentences Streaming Over The Floor And All The Punctuation Settled To The Bottom As A Residue. It Would Be Confusing. Unforgivable. A Great Adventure.

What Is The Fear Inside Language? No Accident Of The Body Can Make It Stop Burning.

Eros Is An Issue Of Boundaries. He Exists Because Certain Boundaries Do. In The Interval Between Reach And Grasp, Between Glance And Counterglance, Between ‘i Love You’ And ‘i Love You Too,’ The Absent Presence Of Desire Comes Alive. But The Boundaries Of Time And Glance And I Love You Are Only Aftershocks Of The Main, Inevitable Boundary That Creates Eros: The Boundary Of Flesh And Self Between You And Me. And It Is Only, Suddenly, At The Moment When I Would Dissolve That Boundary, I Realize I Never Can.

The Man Has A Theory. The Woman Has Hipbones. Here Comes Death.