I seek connection. This is the price of art. To stand itself on its little puff-loving head and arm itself against trying. To the truth, grant connection. A garnet reds itself against the light it has no choice. Where were all these words when I needed to ford the river. I could have used them as a bridge, as something concrete to cross to the other side. I was slipping against the grains of clay, slippery and gray. I found myself at the edge of the wet tire, sliding my feet between the gears. I found myself a robot, calculated the distance to the next orgasm, went over the tube into the inner air sanctuary of breath the vibration of all the greens were against my eyes like a lullaby, a trainwhistle water sooth. I found the music was a memory of everyone I thought I knew then, and we were all friends from different areas of life colliding. Before we got sober we argued about God. Now we talk about the way the dust motes the room, about new roommates, about what we remember about one another though our memories have never been true or from the past. We remember our future together, we stay up all night singing our voices into our ears, touching one another from afar, voicing, voicing.