her on a bench in Venice.
This one, I think.
I touched the marble and read these words twice. And I knew somebody, somewhere, had thought about my vital situation in that right moment and had carved every letter. I WAS the particular person ALL THAT was written for.
I was anyone.
I’ve been trying… trying to cut the umbilical cord between my words and myself since that. Writing on college desks, on blackboard corners. No signature, just naked words that echo inside anonymous heads.
I’ve been trying, with very little success. I’m not an artist… maybe I AM a writer, after all.
I love her work, anyway. I just wanted to say it.