You don’t even know what it looks like what she looks like even me right here beside you you see in shadows in front of the sun and still anticipate a pattern recognition (and yes David sees he sees faces out of the photo gallery of his memory Rosie Soledad in the back seat of an old Ford at this crossroads her window cracked on another hot summer day David nineteen those almond scented eyes looking at him through the crack in the window the heat David looking into the sun to see her and those words first words not heard he hears the sounds sees her lips move but no discernible words nothing that makes sense and the loss there what’s lost in first communications what’s conveyed not understood the person talking knowing from your eyes your lack of response that you didn’t understand and it becomes your first sin together what one person said that the other person didn’t hear and so what one person knows that the other person doesn’t the struggle for power the knowledge of the one who doubts the he or she who doubts they’re missing something some primer to the code of all that follows—yes David sees and remembers his ears like after a long battle with sickness the phlegmatic cough that leads to occlusion how throat and ear are connected that pattern recognition in vibrating vocal chords and how it resonates in our ear drums yes all that follows Bethany bathed in a pool of light listening to him on the stage anticipating the sounds of his music the mother of his children and the more harrowing recent images—Maddie on a bed surrounded by his writing his sheet music the broken fragments of a guitar Benjy’s guitar the one David gave him on his seventh birthday a gift from his father’s pawn shop broken in pieces from when the door to the room was forced) a pattern recognition how your brain rewards itself connecting to fulfilling emotions but you don’t even know what she looks like your enemy your lover only vague composites of many photographs a hair done this way or that a certain color and then another some images with prominent cheek bones a set jaw other visuals softer the hues of puckered lips and eyes in different refractions of light like a crystalline iris almost transparent and then in other opaque and dark colors the shape of shoulders and hands the geometric flesh in a symmetrical vogue of pornographic nakedness breasts and thighs and yes how the voice which emanates from this form sounds either rich with laughter or is mixed in a sultry slur…  So who is she?  The woman you sold your soul to?  What is the psychology of her existence demure submissive or an untamed spirit which loves you only in the act of loving her own soul?  Who is your idyllic female? A woman who enables you to be a man while not affronted in taking care of you?  No, you don’t get off that easy.  It’s the same as ambivalence to your art.  Your perfect match limited by a perimeter of distance.  The dictum of multiple choices the cut short range interval of your selection and not an essayed surety.  Weak man!  You think since you don’t have concrete evidence the sale can be refunded some way as long as you keep your receipt.  That there are good people out there.  Good women.  You are outnumbered but you must still do what you are impelled to do and confess the sick gestures of your mind.  You must admit you admire the irrational your masochistic martyr wishes as if it gives sanctity to your sins.  No—choose.  Choose the form of your destruction for this leads you to the realm of your salvation and that womb you wish to return to…

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