There is a cold clock on the wall. It does not move or change. It is frozen in a moment when the wind came and carried the voices of many angry men.
Standing next to you, I realize that your perfume cascades over me. We are next to each other and yet I still do not know your name. We stand on a bus that travels a set route through the city. Most buildings reflect my image but I do not stop and look to see if I am frozen in the glass or not.
On my finger, there is a single red drop of blood. There is a small chip hovering over this drop that will absorb the blood and run many tests to determine my place in line. There is portent and anxiety reflected in this one red drop.
I’m walking in this body going somewhere with these hands I’m touching someone with this mouth I’m saying something with these ears I’m hearing nothing with these eyes I cry for no one but this isn’t own my body I’m just walking where it will go
The long river winds through time and memory, a journey and a place, peaceful and violent, a snake of healing and repentance. On a clear morning, even the river is still enough to skip a rock from yesterday to tomorrow, mist clinging to the surface, a dance between phases of solid and gas, a dance of sublimation.
The first thing they teach you is how to fall. What they can’t teach you is how far you will fall. My name is Ferocity and I fell farther than I thought possible.
When I was a child, they sent for my first teacher. She taught me to read and to write, to respect the written or spoken word. She taught me that words have power. Without respect, power can burn like a forest fire, out of control, sometimes hidden in the dark, smoldering for weeks, months even, until the conditions are right to burst forth and cleanse the land. Once cleansed, the land has a chance to start over.