I see the line but do not recall having been there. I was there. In a different time, and now from another direction I am there again. The lines are not the same for they have accumulated time and its resulting sediment. I erase the line.
Blankets are the next skin after the body.
I am connected to the earth. The loose remnants of the earth I brought from outside all collected in the trap beneath my feet, filling, making full that which was without substance, empty. I read, the words stay but find themselves slightly milky when I try again to find them. I sort through them and place their thoughts into compartments. You wait in your containment to be opened, to release all colour, suck in air, nothing moves through you.