by Joshua Otto

Once upon a time, there was one who gave up remembering
and became divisible.  Long before that, another once had
explained the limited utility of one’s telling in detailed,
cotidian scenarios: Laughing, don’t quit yet, I’m counting on you.

I cannot make promises without spilling regrets.

On such beaches, musical waves are spelt to die.  Who
is willing to sing with such heart?  Through the smoke of a pipe
I see your silhouette pinned to the wrist of the melody.
Every geography is mapped in the record of your voice.