Memory, layer upon layer—like attempts to erase or to hold on. My dense presence pushes you further away. So much left unsaid hangs in the void. On the very edge. The earth does not reach toward the sky, nor does it resist. It simply is. And on this line, at the very fault line between the substantial and the weightless, you stand. Small. The horizon passes straight through you, yet you remain unharmed. Your roof belongs to the sky, your foundation to the earth. The horizon has cut through the memory—I remember the scent of peonies glowing in the summer sun, but I cannot feel it, nor touch the petals. I am on the border between what I feel and what I can hold. Red has become the color of the boundary. It screams, but silently. All in vain. This is the color of that very thought—I want to go home—which drips again into my mind. It is so close that it seems I need only reach out and I would touch it. But every time I try, the distance restores itself. The impossibility of returning to wholeness—like the impossibility of stepping through one's own front door. Between being and absence. Between I am here and I am no more. You are too close to forget, and too far to return. #2