Your face is invisible this night, darkening, after shedding all of horizon’s bloody shreds.

What I had always to go by were words, and these, as you know will remain insufficient, inexact, and incapable of measuring the gap (is it an inch or a mile?) between what I say and what I will be unable to say. Yet my hunger for them is greater than constancy of such failures. Why?

Imagine a sea and a ship in it. All language is then a sea that holds me aloft. And even though I find myself gliding on it, the deepest desire I harbor is of drowning. Since you let me touch you only (and they say be thankful for what you have) with these feathers, these catamarans of words, and since I prefer the breathiness of drowning, what is whistling in this mutually invisible time is a wind of words.