In the blankness of the page, all I think about are the words that could possibly fill it. I am conjuring up in my delusional psyche all the wonderful, lovely things you could say. I am, counting, all those small things, and big ones, that you would probably mutter to tick me off or make me smile. Given all those odd and also usual, ever irritating, mannerisms you may have with you, I am prepared to notice and speak and fight it out with you about or because of ‘em. I am anticipating all your tones, all your weird mimicking of accents and that quirky, forgettable face. Over coffee, while on a bus, at a concert queue, by the bridge, in the patisserie, while traveling, as books are read, as meals are had, as time travels faster than my mind.
You are there, and you speak a language that is neither yours nor mine. But we get it, we understand, we converse and transcend the words and the spirits and the bones and the flesh which are supposedly who we are and what we are and what encompasses and decomposes in us.
These conversations, when will they happen? I just hope, they ever could.
— “Conversations”, November 20, 2012