"Please, would you please tell me what this says?"
-Ah, hello reader. Voracious student of literature.
Woman sending photographs of the future of words to herself across past minds.
Underliner. A turner of pages, pausing, laughing, pointing then laughing again.
A reflector, introspeculator, internalizer. Child of learned expressions. Observer, going on to penetrate the subservient image.
Sly dancer attracted, welcomed by the sexuale optique. Opiated oracles maneuvered to channel dead poets alive. Suffering again to remember. A re-collector- sporadic as space as hungry for the exotic.
A revelle. Cautioned and encouraged by words. Titillated by the unfamiliar and the occult.
Imagine yourself bigger than me. Imagine yourself completely gone. Both of you are. But you never ask if the moon is cold and how cold. You never ask if you will have another father, or how much father you have in you.
The sun is not hot. It is not a pebble in space or crust on the dust shed by the pebble you are. You are right to ask the wrong question. I am the son, now you are the sun, now you are. As hot as you want to be is how hot you are is how hot the sun is.
The answer is yes. The pawn shop is always open- like a pit. Like the gates to hell. But you are across the street, not yet looking in.