She Had Always Wanted Words, She Loved

There Was A Time When Mapmakers Named The Places They Travelled Through With The Names Of Lovers Rather Than Their Own.

Her Life With Others No Longer Interests Him. He Wants Only Her Stalking Beauty, Her Theatre Of Expressions. He Wants The Minute Secret Reflection Between Them, The Depth Of Field Minimal, Their Foreignness Intimate Like Two Pages Of A Closed Book.

Truth, At The Wrong Time, Can Be Dangerous.

You Don't Want To Write Your Own Opinion, You Don't Want To Just Represent Yourself, But Represent Yourself Through Someone Else.

Water Is The Exile, Carried Back In Cans And Flasks, The Ghost Between Your Hands And Your Mouth.