But the spaces between words are where the witty ones find the Truth truly roaring, for there is never really any lack there neither, not after Lacan went spelunking in these spaces. For language also abhors a vacuum, like nature, which itself was supposedly spoken into being.
Up sleepwalking I kept talking to you though the taillights of your car had disappeared far far down at the end of our dusty dirt road many hours before.
So through transparent bowers of Turkish rose evoked by very real powers of futuristic farm girl mediumship (in civilized places I would have learned already, like they did and we still never have, that these powers do not exist) I wandered in the antique white nightgown my grandmother had given me and found you again where you slept. And on the edge of your bed in the dark you swore too that you saw and felt and spoke until...
"Who are you talking to?" she asked me as I wandered around our farmhouse. "Oh, him." I said. "You're sleepwalking, go back to bed."
It was near dawn. I realized I was and I did.
When I awoke it was like Opone, with its scent beguiling a real Bulgarian blossom though the flower it spoke of had died so many months before. A hint of masculinity there reminds me that is was really real, I was there with you, talking and touching across the vast interstellar space between your loser farm town and mine.
"They don't burn witches anymore, right?" you used to ask as a joke.
I still don't know the answer to that one.