I asked someone who knows me very well if he believes in fate. He said no, and I immediately stopped all beliefs in fate. If I kissed your knuckles, that was me and not fate. Tickling your sides till you threw me off the bed and bruised my thigh yellow-green and gray--this was us relatively and not inextricably.
It's impossible to tell how exhausted a language is. I've spent years on a single letter. They have names and I sing them into the wind. Long gone and sing-songy. They're erosive elements that wear down my teeth, but that was me not knowing. You can say you're sorry, but the wind gathers the names.
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