Ray Bradbury: “Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for.”
Love keeps its unique secret, for now, for me. Shadow or light, it dapples skin, flesh, hair, woman, paper. The dappling itself, the play between dark and light. Love leaves its trace only thus and refuses its re-shaping through language. So remind me again through haptic memory, sensation recalling sensation, making sense through sensation, never the same, only the like, never as it was, only as something else, yet always connecting past to present.