I am trying to do some writing and it is like picking off a scab on a rather fresh wound. I find that I have to go there and in going there I am revisiting the pain. So they want my blood, or he at least asked for it. Why, why why did you do those paintings? How can I say? My silly stupid heart hangs on those walls, falling in the throat of birds, feeling the touch of a painted hand, wrapped in cord around the owl plummeting to earth. I wanted him to understand my language-words fall flat,words fall, out of his eyes. What were you saying? I am trying to hear you, not what I want to hear, but what you are really saying. I long to listen to you and hear your stories but the way is blocked. There are doors I cannot open, but sometimes I see the glimmer of light coming from them, from you. Will you also disappear behind them?