Stretch me out. Stretch me out in the in-between--in the interim that perpetually lies between longing and completion. Stretch me out--pull me and push me--back to where I never was, toward where I'll never be. Stretch me out, and let me lie in the ambiguity--let it run all the way.
This is where I hope from? To? From my natality to my mortality? From the immemorial institution of my desire to the end I'll never know?
Stretch me out and leave me here. I don't want to fix it. I don't want to exit--I love the desert of the surreal gray. I love it as much as I will ever be able to love anything. I want to wallow, if just for this moment, in the indiscretion of not-knowing. Leave me here and don't suggest a solution. Leave me here, and if you are going to stay, at least stay silent.
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