at first, it was not inventiveness but a kind of love that drove us into it -- the fashioning of something out of those afternoons. not everything
had a name, or could be humbly defined by
circumstance. we were much older then -- older
to the people who knew us, who believed that
we knew a thing or two about breathing properly, at the
right staccato points. now, things are more
ruinous, infinitely larger than they truly are. we have set our facts,
felt them on our skins, have seen them in our seperate mirrors. oh how
lovely to still hold true -- this belief that we were once
flying saucers, our own
metaphors.now that we are older, you say my lines hold nothing from you. what
is left is the vision of your slender body thrusting forward, always toward
brighter things.
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