people’s private thoughts. She said it was like a thought balloon talking to
another thought balloon.
about thought. Crying about feeling. Writing about not being able to write.
Blogging about blogging.
exhibitionist needs her voyeurs, storytellers their wide-eyed children. I live
in hope that my words, evanescent though they have always been, and even more so
now that they are pixels and flickers, will survive my flesh, a thought in
someone else’s life, a feeling remembered in someone else’s skin. I believe
that whenever we create, we put death in its place. We love and fight and mourn
as if no one else has loved and fought and mourned; we know ourselves singular
and unrepeated, no matter how many cooing aunts say, you look so much like your