Some men dreamed of women's skin so smooth, so young, so unblemished that they would take their lovers out of the billowing cool tents, one by one, and sit holding their heads vise-like between their thighs, and gently under the glare of the hottest of suns and with the thin blade of a knife's edge would bring it down upon their faces. I think about these things we create these hypertexts as part of our skin not thread, not warp or woof weaving, not bone or body or sinew, but as skin, as permeable and open as the eyes on our faces, as fine as spun silk, as strong as gut.
Skin is fluid.
In storyspace, the words open as the readers open to a world of boxes and places, lines and links, and what we see here or in the formed book is the outer membrane, the surface layer, the rind or peel of fruit, a film on liquid. Skin is thought for space, wrapping its dermal layers around a body that is never still, but is always shifting, sliding, gaining fat or energy, continually growing, shedding, wrinkling, smoothing. There is no belief in emerging order, the skin is what you feel, sense, see, experience, touch. A skin that is ready to be read. My body exists for the space of its unfolding.