An evenness that is like the wind; ever present, varying only in intensity, intangible, invisible, forgotten. I bring my hands together for the variety it causes in thie place of consistency. Silence dances without purpose, where is movement where is change, what is being alive, I can't remember how this static existence differs from death, death is good, evenness is good; in the middle of it, between the evenness and the more evenness there is the sound of my hands coming together, the movement of my arms connecting my hands together. It is bawdy, rude, unacceptable. I am ashamed. I will not do it again. Stretching across my face my skin soaks silent static dances I am numb numb numb numb numb
