there is of course, a mad almost feverish magic to writing, to this, to you in the dark sleeping. as if. as if time begins and ends here, between each letter, then ruptures before the next word. you inhale, your torso gently rises, life sprung anew, blood coursing through veins, then exhale, the leaving of everything, silence and stillness. until the next word, the next breath. enraptured i write with bitter hands that had once held, what, our child? there were never any children. only the denial of children, only the thorn of reaching out for something we once thought beautiful but could never possess.