that letter post has been deleted by me.
but on my mind is still the same: what are the artifacts of love? what do we abandon, when we fall in love, and what do we retain, when it all falls apart? what is left. when. what evidence is there of any of it.
and: in that indescribable, in either fall, what do we gain.
this was not an autobiography, or at least not one autobiography. this was the expression of that humanhuman twist--ever around the finest of dynamic rods running between the additive and subtractive; between the acts of robbing and giving. between the acts of holding on, and simple unfastening.
and this post has been deleted. by me. it's still a story, if you can read it.
