Saturday, March 3, 2012


I have a talent and it is a sweet talent which appeared the year my body burned and has not left me yet. I wish I could tell you about the talent. You have expressed admiration for this talent. But I cannot say that "I can do that," I only could show you, and I don't know that the moment will ever be right. Someone inside of me says, "There is no right moment," which I have heard somewhere, maybe, or just realized, but for this, to show you this talent, there would be a moment more right than all others, and I would choose that moment to show you, and I would be afraid, and it would flutter, the talent, like when Colin's dad caught that butterfly between his hands at the baseball game. And that would be well, because that is the talent. It is fluttering. The compulsion to flutter. When I was eighteen years old, something broke, in my chest, and my voice has fluttered since then. But you do not know this and I do not know when you will, or if you will. It is not a matter of "should" or "should not," only of "whenshalliseeyouagain" and "willamomentofsuchsweetnessarise." "Amomentwhichsummonsasong." "Whichcallsforsinging."

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