Time immemorial has sought us to define ourselves by how best we can serve others. Father, Doctor, Priest. I am watching with my eyes shut, timeless cadence spirals until my voice breaks the silence, and we are left to pick up the pieces of our own unfortunate hidings, trapped beneath layers of thick animal fur. What is left in the end? An act of service, a blue, red, purple bruising pledge of complete forgiveness. I have recently been thinking about what it means to forgive. These two words squished together for give. I forgive you, locked, dropped and spiralled like a tooth that comes loose, tie a piece of string (however would we do this, who has small enough fingers?) and slam the door shut. My baby balances on her head, in my dreams I see a glittering banana- crystallized, left open to the elements, it seemed to be only sugar and the sugar overcame the absolute organic-ness of the fruit and it was unable to turn black and mush away. I guide my eyes back into my head, contradicting the effort with the unconscious act of following, it licks my lids, where do I decide where to look, plotting everything, a light can measure, I saw it, it was used by the structural architects, to measure the internal walls. Something was beating in my feet as she defined the walls on her paper with beautiful curves and small metric markings. The architect looked like an architect, grey wool quarter zip, a foreign air, black glasses. Tall and firm, subtle nonetheless.

I place myself next to myself and think about all of the writing that cannot be poetry, that has to make sense, what is the use in writing something if nobody will read it? I am not writing something for the purpose of it being read- you see, I am a scribe, I always have been.

Levelled in the aftermath there are a lot of deaths I must uncover, who speaks the truth, what is the narrative structure, where do I exists outside of my body? Is it in these words or is it ripped from a near dead meaning, I am lonely and cold in the memory.