The Word Made Flesh
Reading, writing, sex, contemplation – one looks for the one in the two and, finding it or something like it, becomes herself again, maybe for the first time again.
Nearly five o'clock: the sky hasn't lightened yet, but it will soon. The time in-between. Bardo. The cloud cover, seen through the window by night, is complete and featureless. The sun will slowly fill it up with soft light, will find the thin spots in the overcast and pool there. The first birds will begin to tune up.
But now, only the tick of the clock, and the glow of the screen on my hands. About to unmoor and give myself to the day.