is there really something to talk about? or are you just stirring the waters of a stagnant pond, picturing shapes and shadows in the outlines of ripples that you yourself invented? ...nothing speaks for itself... and when there is little feeling hiding within this empty receptacle, when the words cower before the gate of expression, shivering and naked under the scrutiny of the unseen eyes, there is no reason to believe that anything worth saying will be said, and convince anyone of anything...

maybe it is better to be quiet.

this is the way of the rat, to sniff the air for signs and portents, but trace the small shadows for crumbs and leavings. there is no overarching vision of the world, only hints and promises of a meal of refuse. there is no singing voice lifted up and uplifting, only the quiet of someone who has nothing important to say, and who does not really want to be heard in any case... mumbles and subterfuge.

folds, textures, details. the dimension of the small, microscopic, idiosyncratic. and prose and plotlines that are caught in the rut of a rat's haunting grounds, not daring to venture forth beyond the known and the long-since conquered...

i have nothing new to say today, tonight.

***