December 21, 2000: I am…the listener

I’ll never understand why my imagination enjoys drawing faces—it’s not that I’m lonely. It’s not that I love being around people. Maybe it’s the curves in the eye, the roundedness of a nose or the formation of shade? And then I write: Listen not to the opinion of a self who searches—put value in a sip of confidence. A passerby gives these faces to you to draw—no one but you saw him, only you could smell the scent of his leather. Viewed upon was not desire but an open hand, which believes in what’s shoved aside, the material labeled, unexplained.