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Across the quietude khadags rippling--
--came here for the wind--
--the girl who comes to my side after I pray--please guide
me toward joy and the shedding of old skins, the release of the shadow inside like sap where it should be free and easy between my bones.

When I was done praying the little girl in pink with a long braid followed me. Love's withdrawal is musicless. Falling upwards, he wrote. Withdrawal's music is loveless. The picture I chose (though the one of him and his girlfriend was off limits, naked and taken from the shoulders up) Withdrawal's love is musicless. I like your panting, he said, the most generous thing he could have since 20km did not tire him. Music's withdrawal is loveless. He wrote about how the flame made the candle weep. I put the nice phone I found in the bathroom in my boot for five minutes before giving it to the waitress. Withdrawal's love is musicless. He took a sprite for his girlfriend and then told me they'd been quarreling all that day. He says with his hands, my anger just explodes. Hers is slow burning.

It's not a question of creating the chasm. I know I did. Can't stop foot from tapping. She got C a valentines day present even though she wasn't her stepmother anymore and C stole her gas quarters every time. What we call mist is the act of being forced into separate lucidities. He started using the word muffin like me, as a term of affection. From where do the bright clouds mass in? Seeing suffering on a lover's face for the first time is a form of punctuation.


Something to do with a train full of people passing us, and trying to hide from them. In sped up clips by the guy who languidly came out in his knockers and boots, waving his club in his hand. Turned out to be a sweet old guy who mimed his own ear being pulled, but showed us the way to the main highway back to Ulaanbaatar anyway, past the growling befanged German shepherd chained near the bridge guardhouse. What if a person could separate their anger and kindness into distinct physical entities?