As if the earth itself feels desire and fear. The plates, the chrysalises and their senses. Everything begins and departs from the earth. When you die, when you are seed, when you start. One falls down to return to feel all its vibrations and distant drums. The subsoil and its creatures, worms, decomposition. Mythological creatures.  Everything is tied by a chord to the core of fire. 

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I read signs on my skin, I whirl over myself, my legs still rumble. The story of a plant, the story of an animal, story of a body that, like water, spreads out shallow. It is around us, not above us, the enchantment. Sound is an anchor. Water in monoliths, in lakes, in mud. The same water melted after the ice ages.

 

I feel unique in the whole, it is mine only what I share. I am circle and not line. We are not better, we are not worse. I am now in the focus - now out of focus.
 

A snake of liquid memory falls from my temples, hides inside my bowels, becomes a thunderstorm, an internal battle. A ring of bells at a stranger's funeral. A sunny day. I forget it as soon as I turn the corner. A breath that comes to me after months of travel, between cities, among a thousand species of trees and insects. It comes to me through the smog, it comes to me on an ordinary day. Ovulation between the eyes. I write a breath that, from my lungs goes up my throat and out like air, warm and soaked with soul.