I hear the words in my head before I scribble them down, trying to make out which came first, each letter hatched out of an infinitity I can't adequately define, I recall the shape of her face, from slanted mouth to almond eyes, but cannot create a word that tells me what goes on inside her head. We each live in a self created world of our own delusion, assumptions we use as facts, biases we believe untainted, giving each words we offer as proof, spelling it out, spilling blood like ink, until the whole page bleeds, and yet is no closer to being real than a page without them. I need to reach in and feel her to know what is real or not, to learn for myself what she is made of -- this golden goose, this fair princess, this figure of my amazing imagination, I hear the words in my head as I scribble and believe no one of them.
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