I write because there’s something about an echo that feels right. There’s all the white space of possibility in between. There could be something there. A word to start. The way the words are ordered are up to me. They don’t have to be in lanes. They don’t have to go forward.
I know a man, for example, who speaks in circles of ever tightening circumference. If I stop long enough to keep listening, they rise like a small mountain pushing up to the sky. And, he must use that vortex of words that sound all the same to me to tell me something I don’t know.
I write to build the order of my insides according only to my insides which I cannot see. I pull outside references in like a centrifuge, like a tornado pulling boots alongside houses alongside cows. I write so I can feel like I belong to myself so I can belong.