Monday, 27 April 2009


Twenty years. Ten years of dismembered memories.
I wonder who this woman is, this mask of wood and golden nails. One day I’ll remove this mask and find the wood decomposed, the nails rusted.

Perfection is obsolete. Your mask hides reality, reality that I will never know. I do not know who you are, who you were, who we are. I cannot find the words to write about you.

You are ambiguous, an amphibian, an unpolished topaz. I am pulverised by this latest thing.

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