two individuals greet each another; one looks like a tired file cabinet, the other acts like one.
-my dear . . . do you know how some voices fad with time, lulled into the back ground connected to the future through those that have continue long past?
-yes . . . like an aria that circles in the trees.
-not quite . . . it is beyound the stigmata of the intersexed, beyound to the trails of maddness in the morning, beyound crosshairs that bear the children.
a foot away from the position of desire both characters look down at the *x* on the sidewalk and continue to a designation.
-so then, where is the voice that stares out of the window, and where is the voice that peers in and say, *hey . . . stop that . . . will you just stop it?*
- it is on the road in the closet?
-more I dare say, a rattle of an empty tin can north on the beach.
-a triumph under something never sweatered?
-under a different amen.
-and?
-wiped clean with a permanent eraser.
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