Where are you from?
That question bores me more than any other. Instead ask, “Where are you going?” That would be a question of interest. Bearing answers of intrigue and hope. Or response from the truly desolate.
You can learn a lot in wielding a grip on this slippery language. These are humid times. Condensation on every syllable. It’s hard to bear. What is meant is held within those beads of moisture sliding down the sides of what is said. The water falls and breaks… it’s contents evaporating ineffectually in the minuscule manner of fluid.
Perhaps only a select few can read the message in the residue. Salt on pavement. Tea leaves in a mug. Ignore the patterns and the seductive nature of symmetry.
We miss so much.
