I've spent enough years with my face arranged in books. I've read enough to crush my sternum. In each of the books are people talking, saying the same thing, their tongues slim and white and speckled with the words.
Behind her eyes were also stairwells, which also led to something gone.
It replaced the definitions of certain words in dictionaries no one would ever open.
Milk all through the years in lather leather held out only by an idea.
The man said I am sorry I could not remember but now I remember many things I think and as time progresses I will continue to remember more things and there will be more things to remember.
He turned around and found the world.
[...] time catching time there where time had meant never to be.
Curds of syntax mad in old names.
I might look down and find my arms there typing language and believe the language and know it was or I would look down and find the words there in my body written always, I could hold my body as a book, [...]