Art needs a public. It doesn't need me there.
Standing in front of someone who isn't asking aloud, but with their eyes to tell them what to think about this work. A conversation, exchanges of words out of the mouths of others.
Skin itching in the clothes of another life. Light comes into the room.
Another chance to change the subject.
Pulled together, squeaked clean, stand still for moments. Open doors.
- -
What is next? I can't see beyond the end of my nose. Pulling thoughts out of my memory makes my eyes and the present go black. Grabbing words from the bank behind my eyes ties my tongue in knots, I nip the end with my teeth to check it still works, touch salty fingers.
What does it feel like? It's horrible, to lose yourself, to find you are ten points in twenty directions, each split end deadened and frizzing off.
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