“The way a deer emerges from a thicket is the opposite of a wound. Like the moon in the morning — all firmament, beautiful, about to vanish. Each morning I walk out my apartment & wonder what is going to become of me.”

    When we killed what we were to become what we are, what did we do with the bodies? We did what most people do; buried them under the floorboards and got used to the smell.     I’ve lived my life like a serial killer; finish with one part, strangle it and move on to the next. Life in neat little boxes is life in neat little coffins, the dead bodies of the past laid out side by side. I am discovering, now, in the late afternoon of the day, that the dead still speak.     Past? Present? Future? The language of the dead. Totality of time.