Sat 17 Aug 1996 22:00
later
I type on and
I know we both want, and I know we don't know what we want. What is best of all, there is no coherency. We feel what we want, but feeling and expression are two exactly the same things. How expression. Expression.

To make the same the feeling and the expression, to express love as I love you, to express appreciation as I appreciate, as I love you, and I do. To have you
To say it a loud so there no question but of intent and meaning, to force the questions and leave the thought of action behind.

I know we both want, but hell, we're fucked. By the way the people around us live and have lived. We have to tear ourselves apart we have to tear the perceptions the glass, the lens, the mirror, a knife in the painting. And we see through the frame to a clearer world, and not.

But we start over and make it up ourselves, asking what needs to be asked and taking what does not force us to question as much, we will get to it all around time.

So it is you woman, and all of the world that has created you, and now homosexual, is this meaningless to you. So it is you woman, though you have the body of the man, you attract me with what it is that is a woman, and can you tell me, can you tell me, man, what she is. I wish you would know and I wish you would talk to me. I wish I would say she is understandable, and it is that I make her unattainable, incomprehensible, this understanding of my attraction, that I may be attracted more. I type and not write, because I have enough paper, though it is, more beautiful to write.

So there she is, a Mollie, I can talk to, and what questions do I have for her. I say I know and I am arrogant, and you know Mollie, I can tell you nothing. I do not know the asking of advice, how could my perception of your existence be any more clear than yours, you are your perception, and never let me in, because I fear, you are not yourself now and the end. Slate. So you are the known Mary, you are the one I can talk to because meaning has not been goned. You are the one who will be here the whole life, as long as I can write a letter or call, and always I will love you, and so. Marie. And I don't ask anymore and I say some foolish stuff, and I guess, you do to. I don't know if you could ever bother me with it. There are some people so good to listen to and Stephanie is one, why does she have it. She speaks of herself, only. She speaks of herself, only. Is my answer. Lise, spoke mostly of herself, and I don't know what I speak of to her, anyways. So good to listen to. I wish she would call me just to talk, and go on and on, and I wonder how much would be to much. When I wanted to call Sara to tell her of my day, and now I do not have it. I wish I had a reason to call a one of them now, but I think of Kristen, only, because she is whom I see and loves. Calling is not seeing. It is whom I see.

So I have this most seriousness, and that is why I look at every woman, and as I have been polluted with the appreciation Idea, if she appreciates me appreciating her appreciating me appreciating her, and stasis. That is why I look at every one, as I go by, not all but certain ones, not by age either, by aura, to be sure.

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