We all knew she needed help.
But none of us knew how.
And none of us could swallow our pride and just ask her what she needed.
I don’t know why.
Maybe we were too ashamed we didn’t know how to approach our own mother.

So we let the years slip unhappily past us and hoped we would never inherit the misery embedded in her soul.

But I did.

And I didn’t know how to say it aloud.
And I still don’t.

She who is a dancer can only sway the silk of her hair like the summer breeze.

The color-patches of vision part, shift, and reform as I move through space in time. The present is the object of vision, and what I see before me at any given second is a full field of color patches scattered just so. The configuration will never be repeated. Living is moving; time is a live creek bearing changing lights. As I move, or as the world moves around me, the fullness of what I see shatters. “Last forever!

For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something – distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world – but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.

If passion was a substance I would say it is dark brown, and then blood red. It’s like wet grass, tons of it soaked in mud. It’s warm and it stinks like shit and it’s unaccountably and endlessly good. It’s thick and it goes on for miles and it isn’t so much deep as bottomless and it holds you in its grip, you never drown. And then it goes. That’s all you know.

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