11.3.25

The color of this wound is not one you can see with your eyes. What we can't see, we see most clearly. The wounded world, then. Today, as usual, I am full of aphorisms. I listen to myself talk, for once. All of these words fall from me like useless blossoms. Underfoot, they bloom. 

Perhaps those who don't make it in this world make it in another one. (Joy Harjo, "Woman Warrior") A year or so ago I quoted this in a piece of writing about moving to New York. Whatever called me to it then still calls to me now.