My closed hand beats my chest, caves it in like the hood of a South Korean car. I give in and my fist settles into the dent I made, and it fits, really gets to me, gets in with touching it-is-touch. The thing that really gets to me is my frame, my brass body, the same clouds rise over and over it. When will it be over, this dancing on tiptoes, this crying, as loud as the dogs in the street. One day, those clouds over me will look nothing like the clouds they tell you about, they will be a string of horses finding their way between buildings. If we are made of dust, it is the dust that is left after the stampede. You could not be born at a better period than the present, when we have lost everything.
Nothing I touch is mine, or yours or yours or yours. It reaches us, the dark of give me all youâ€™ve got. That is what touches us