When you are thinking so much I am usually alone on a balcony, feeling distantly to a mother and father of mine. You know I am both far and inside them, because I told you and you listen to what I tell you. I know your neuroses are you when I see them. You are as you appear. “We can never hide behind our appearance because that’s all that shows up.” All you can say is exactly what I show you. That is all you see of me is equivalent to my breaking openness with respect to an honest version of myself amid the flipping, spiral toss of many options. Buzzing like clouds that you hear. I look a certain way, you make the music. People accept us as you and me. We accept them as you and I, both. I find your eyes peerless, perfectly in the morning; you, willing to look at me one time without my knowing, will continue to allow yourself to do so. My being a performer, endlessly duplicitous as a fact, and tumbling again and again toward a purity of line and movement, find you there, once.
