i was all ready to write, in the sense i thought or felt i was then capable of some sort of expression and then, like the water roaring under the ice, smoothing the boulders, it (whatever "it" is) was no more.
why do we think we have anything to say anyway?
does it matter who we are in relation to others?
are we anything other than what we are in relation to others?
Bodies called to mind are steeped in salt
4 hours ago