Answer it for the last time,
the repeating lie after tapestry takes away from the
gory inside story.
No camera crew, just smoldering blood rising into sweat filled smoke, the fumes of the hidden bodies closed behind each newly erected closet.
Harboring this much, there's no way one can be enough.
I choose chop sticks, because my fingers are kind of new to this.
You know, the gouging out of the third eye.
The only vesicle, true interpreter that may give me away.
Slumped shoulders, but head held high enough to see the rhythm preceding me, the want he's trying to ignore, yet there is no music, just the sound of wind washed hair, licked lips, and flittered eyelids.
Close then open,
open then close,
close then open.
He does it fast enough to make a movie of the moment.
Each a new still, hung in a darkroom he dare not enter; for the negatives are everywhere. The solution is what he's trying to get right.
Exposure, timing -he's no shutter bug-
That's why he chooses chop sticks, his fingers are just too new to this.
You know, plunging his hand into water without getting them wet.
It's a miracle he's picked up anything.
The presence here is stifling, relating more to the heat in the moment, not for the moment he was forced to acknowledge the heat.
He thinks a cooling down period is absurd. It's better to melt away and have memories, then frozen forms unchanged, scrutinized,
catalogued, and preserved for the sake of posterity.
Trust me, he knows how tainted, and reshaped memories can be, but he likes to have faith in the integrity.
Claims it makes for better character.
While I'm still trying to figure out how to use chop sticks.
You know, because clay can be messy, and if Daniel son has taught us anything, it's what you capture that's so **** impressive.
I can see the pool of liquid emerging from the sides of his head, many want to think it's saliva, you know, "pool of drool."
But I know better; through trial and error I can tell when a man's been crying.
This isn't boredom, he too tried to figure out how to use chop sticks, but gave up one tasty morsel away.
"The elegance of chance is knowing you can't know."
