The heart can get really cold if all you've known is winter. ― Benjamin Alire Sáenz
He is afflicted on these winter nights when he looks inward, contemplating an autonomy which he knows exists within himself.
He’s beginning to walk with that explosive action, but the spear enters his left side again, he turns away, weeps for himself.
Go everywhere and try to blot out thought. Dances, museums, theaters — pay no mind to the jaws of rotten molars all around him. He is utterly incapable of even laying his own ghosts, but here he is, by implication, mapping out his own invisible spring, a sort of symbol of this artistic personality.
The rain cascades, the wind erupts, and here he is. He wants to say, always, ‘take me and rip me open’.
Walking away an old ashen grey, eyes on the fire, his head resting on top of white steps, picking at the memories near the barred window, a funny kind of intelligence emerges, the skeleton’s teeth smile upside down.
He is thoroughly opened and explored. His guts are emptied.
New York City, October 1998