for one night I was burningly excited by the new scaffolding I have been building around soft shroud. I stayed up late, I wrote lines, I went to bed in a surge of its reasoning. it would be the gentle beauty of intimate conversation. gap crossing, bridging. an encomium for this, a lullaby of harmonising dialogue.

I lost that in the days after; interruptions, and... just failure to realise in words what I felt... the voices took on the tones of interrogation and isolation instead. I don't know how to make it otherwise... and - I still very much fear explaining and the loss of energy, immediacy, that might come with that. but isn't explanation precisely the beauty I was after? when a person explains something important, and then it is felt and understood.

Maybe it is not the information that is important, but the relationship?