Lewis Carroll (1857)
“do you remember how were we?
about how you ate and talked, munching and storytelling;
about how we discussed rain, the small burn on my hand;
about how we laughed at each other and argued fiercely;
no, nothing, they are seconds and minutes,
aren’t they just the past, faded memories, and washed away
to some dark corners; light now focuses on ego and motives;
don’t you remember that we were not like this?”
she sipped some water, he listened;
coloured, textured flesh; bones a little more single shaded,
rough and firm; thoughts and perspectives, where do they stick?
do they wear different shades, clothes shiny and rough as flesh?
or do they stand firm as they are and as they are made, white shades?
wait, but where do we feel how were we, in flesh, bone, skin or nerves?
we are prints of limited vision, gossips, talks, our silence and absences;
some of us flesh, some skeletons; inside all the layers when we breathe,
where do they fall, touch and make stories?
flesh, skeletons and breath,
what do we see and choose?
what stories are made loud?