“Writing to you is like kissing you. It is something physical.”
— Simone de Beauvoir, from a letter to Nelson Algren c. November 1949
As an aesthetic, I like a hushed chorus,
but only when trust is visceral and
bent around a promise—or a threat.
Arranged curious, this casual normalizing devours.
As we follow a line or a thread until safely curated—
tangled into the finest shouting fragments,
subbed as loaded derivatives, and mocked influences
we have learned to manage public feelings to epic scale.
In privacy’s absence, such division is essential.
These inhabited suggestions become their own revenge.
