I read Rilke. No, more than that, it reached into my heart and pulled out every single word like a magician pulls out their colorful handkerchiefs knotted together at the ends. And I felt like I needed to learn another language just so I could read the original instead of the translation because you lose things in the process of translation, a gold syrup that passes through inky fingers. It's broken a bit of me... And I can see it so clearly... I suppose I'll be searching for printed copies tomorrow, despite the icy sheets of paper that'll coat the world like scattered hand-written prose on the carpet floor. Things like this twist my insides until it resolves. I need to find an end to it, press my fingers into the pages with a highlighter and pen at my side...disappear. I thought about sending you the one I read. You and I get into those small talks about everything and anything and color and light and imagery and, fleetingly, I thought to share this too... But I think it is on a subject matter too...in tune...with a certain line of conversation to be shared without misinterpretation. After all, you and she...should no longer be connected with an "and"... And I assume that that friend of hers is not a friend. I am getting off track. You seemed so happy in the place you are in... I have decided against it. That is the end of it. But I can't help the toss and turn of the infinitely restless oceans startled by these strings of vibrant handkerchief words... There hasn't been a break. I'm lost in it. This is what I wished to send:

"Again and again, however, we know the language of love, / and the little churchyard with its lamenting names and / the staggeringly secret abyss in which others find their / end: again and again the two of us go out under the / ancient trees, make our bed again and again between / the flowers, face to face with the skies."

Signed,
Vivant