and me now when I rush in from the bite and dancing a little I unzip my fly to piss all the while this writing in my head so then the first few seconds I know will frantically overflow and my hands will tremble, are trembling and then I know what it was that had to be written, and I write it, and Plato was right and the world will unfold and the danger is I. My thoughts and your thoughts, my thoughts are your thoughts, my thoughts as your thoughts, art as reality. This IS life, is this it: it is. Why or why not, have and have not, the blacks and the browns, the reds, yellows and multicoloured swirls of rainbow sherbet like me, the French and the English and the Spanish and Swahili speaking all mean nothing because I can smile at that man across the metro and from a face of coal a smile shoots back and him and I grinning hysterically, maniacally on the metro, two mutants cracking. I’d reached 21 before I was able to sit without music, alone on a metro. And everything now no longer, So painful. ly obvious finally. In love again I can write. Understanding is not followed by change, understanding is change. Only the truth is understandable, nothing is nothing, our truths together are the only things we can understand. You seemed to have misplaced meaning, have you ever felt 2+2=4? It should all feel like that, if not you don’t get me. Oh sweet innocent, trusting that action would follow words, that tears were always real. (At the time I had the particularly dangerous misconception that people meant what they said.)