Catastrophe. Tragedy. Disaster: as in, not the loss of the unity of language but rather the loss of the capacity of language to express the excesses of the event. Is it a disaster if we can explain it? Being at a loss; a loss of life, of possession, of normality, of the grasp on reality; the loss of words – a reflection. Rippled reflections on the tensile surface of time. It stretches on beyond; beyond us, life, events, our loss. Simply beings caught between ripples, sometimes cresting, many times lulling. Floating. Never to avoid cliche. The cataclysmic drawing us together every now and then to show, yes, we are here past language. The importance lying in the touch of bodies, skin, palms, cheeks, a wrapping of arms, a wet patch of skin, salty, a bloodshot eye peeking, unintentional butterfly kisses, white knuckles, grasping. Nobody needs to say it’s going to be okay. It might be a lie. The intention is in the set of stilled lips.


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