23.]

 

Dear xxxxxxxxxx

 

Now that union is impossible, love is not its madness severed loudly like an enemy. Here and there, the spirit clings to what’s intact. Whatever thing you are, it is due to being next to Being, notorious in public, never spared. If I as you could only make it known, the field of noise between us like a century, a continent if such a fact or face is possible, than chance exists, an exit opened inward toward the center an other, and we are ignorant together, stranger, or else, like light a desert lives within the inconsistent edges of, our lives electrically pronounce themselves to nothing. Let the argument sustain us, sanction time by fleeting past the frames our edges make around the act of making like a cage. No one carries us. The field is formed and formed again by opposites. Bias, be a habitat. The future isn’t bombed.