My darling. I’m waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I’m horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there’d be the sun. I’m afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we’ve entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we’ve hidden in – like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. We are the real countries. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you’ll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That’s what I’ve wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I’m writing in the darkness.
You speak so many bloody languages, and you never want to talk.
Of course, you idiot. I always wear it; I’ve always worn it; I’ve always loved you.
I wanted to meet the man who could write such a long paper with so few adjectives.
Do you think you are the only one who feels anything?
A woman should never learn to sew, and if she can she shouldn’t admit to it.
