The open spaces are what I become fascinated by in hypertext. There is space enough between the letters and the shift of typefont and comma, to trace a lover's small hollow curve of back and remember the touch of wool or corduroy against my ankle's curve, begin a new imprint of skin. In storyspace I can touch your skin, place a rose or stone, see the plane of water, make it my own. Other images accrue, other stories unfold and are present. There is no closure.
Desire is to fill the orifices and to become an orifice for filling.
Lost Missionary Babies swelled in a ring around my abdomen, they ripened in seconds and consumed me and exploded my skin to escape. One skin shimmers next to another, porous worlds intermingling. All changes with . . .Recognition. Witness. . . The art of it is in the dancing barefoot, letting the skin show, all the while knowing that your dance can change mine, mine yours, sometimes in sync, sometimes out of rhythm, but always present to what yet is not known.