15 Oct 2012

Mondaysuperwhite

I picked out the ice. I did. I was right here when I did it. I stood here, moving sparingly as possible and picked out the ice. Tiptoed, I picked it out with my outstretched fingers. But they say no: they say I wasn't here at all - you were over there they keep on saying. You were over there, and because of the way you waited, and because of the way you were standing, you forced our ice to give itself up to you. Me, they say. I did this. But I simply can't say: I have no bearings in here. This is their white-space. Uncornered, Unedged. Unhorizoned. I know none of the heights or any of the distances in here. I know it's cold, because my blood cells keep on telling me, as does the pale blue color under my skin. I don't even know why I'm here: I'm used to the corners and edges and shadows of the unwhite-space. So they might be right: maybe I did coerce their ice. It would, after all, make sense

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