A sense of belonging is just that, a sense. Moving breaks that open, the sensing part, and the insides spill out: intestines in brown ceramics with an opal glaze, red lamp stomach still chewing on the unfinished from six years ago, the drips of some past relationship and a small but expanding bookshelf, filling up with dust. I tried not telling you something that I wanted to, and if nothing else felt some small sense of control. Remember, maintain a focus on the bigger picture and don’t get too involved. And when access to that larger scale is shattered, shifts behind one of two doors and then behind the one just passed though, what then? Someone said that to become critics we have to desensitize ourselves. As if criticism could be described as anything other than the reach to name a wound or the practice of tracing a silence otherwise inaudible. For a time, the questions happened slowly and there was enough time to ask them twice.
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