I used to be fluent in you. There was a code written on your spine that I memorized, line-by-line. I ask if you'd like ice in your drink. You turn to answer, your back cracks. What's past is now present and I'm stretching to remember how you like your eggs. Scrambled?
Comfort is just a parenthesis. Comfort is an explanation, an unorthodox apology. I'm sorry I can't be here to interpret the meaning behind the items I've left by the fire. Salt, wine, locust. Be your own interpreter.
Language for the blind requires a heightened sense of touch. It requires temperature, body position, pain. At its simplest, the system works when activity in a sensory neuron is triggered by a specific stimulus such as heat. There is a mapping of the body surfaces in the brain. It is essential, it is creation, it is ultimately extinction.
You are my Latin.
Who can measure the colossal loss of a language? What could we have done but listen?
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