I look at what they write and they're all curling inside into small hard-shelled balls

today the glimmer on the sides of buildings reminds me of any other day when this would happen in any other way. flags glimmering transculent in the sunlight. anthem on the television. slo-mo movies of blue-collar workers smiling amidst welding sparks or grease-stained faces.

he writes these paragraphs. at least this is when I realize that it's already gone when he talks about collages [ccollajui ] and the current trend in indie rock [eeen di lak]. rapid fire articulation in my language, twisting deftly like quick slender fingers. this is when I know it's already gone gone when takes me more than a split second to catch what he's trying to say.

jacques derrida says, "I have only one language and it is not mine".

he lives in philadelphia thinking art and music and writing alone
she lives in manhattan thinking music and love and muses alone
he lives in brooklyn thinking love and art and living alone

I have to make these contracts, you see. what is the cost of speaking this language?

(I'd like to see you, coree)