Tuesday, August 18, 2009
For the past few days I’ve been gazing at the photographs of ghosts and muses. For once in my bloody life, I feel responsible toward something more than my own scars, and the unacknowledged wounds which underlie them:
They’re the dark spaces sitting between each word on my computer screen; tinged in a shade of yellow, as yellow as my own skin.
....as present as my ragged breath.
Posted by William H. Balzac at Tuesday, August 18, 2009