Joey commented that it was strange to comment on other
people’s private thoughts. She said it was like a thought balloon talking to
another thought balloon.

Like thinking
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