It all comes down to that blunt conceit of perspective. I so like those stones passed forever by some river, shaped by only certainties, a fish always on the border of more water. I so lost in the confusion of story and history, lost in these songs muddled in between soul and bone. The words belonging always to that just so moment. The words always so entangled with the tongue.
She speaks to me despite the encumbered distance. She speaks to me despite the unlikeliness of all the savor in the phrase. It is only the romance of the sailor and the north star. It is only the distinction of the starlight and the sea. She is such the conspiracy of all that isn't, such the co-mingling of the wanton improbable and Christmas letter. She is the all the language I was born with-out.
I wrote all these letters so long ago, when time ran slow and love was still another country yet discovered. I wrote all the words when words still lingered near their fledge. Green reaches and familiar trees abound. Someone still lived nearer persuasion, someone still lived close to worlds of wonder. Someone lived loose enough to know it didn't have to end as a lie.