Darling julia,
—If every time we’re apart animals I don’t know particularly well if at all sidle up nude and say something life changing. Pressing an ancient coin into my hand like, 'MEANS'. Talon or hot pad braille; big weepy eyes. I usually end up touching one right in the bed. Every inch of which toy, felted body quickens the focus all the way to pubic sharpening, squeak-thread up thru the thinned underwear with the perished elastic — like those irrepressible roots that rend tarmac, my knees crooked under the grey covers, just trying to find a friendly kitten or something. The whole flank goosebumps together, then. Which is so good, I think. Leaf or daint somatic rapport, sweets. Which is what we have, held ambivalent in those distances — though substantial enough, and how! Like that that grounded that bat on Auguststrasse: synchronous magics soop insectan dyes into dusking Berlin air; seeped crimson slipstream, sweets. Bat guffs prelude sweet guano speckling, chiming with stricken sighs I’m giving off below — sat drinking, futtering some sort of hard, salty details and reading, struck something rotten the horrific procedural affectlessness exhibited by the police men after they’ve just shot down a black man, documented on the camera phones, dash cams, those body cams. And so the bat goes to pieces on the pavement symmetrically devastated revelation; a cynical symbolism punching blind & bidden by oh so much. That that bat is so much better than the news and than Skype, so much better than bad journalism. So much better than whatever media affinity: this fucker be borne on black crepe wings that tool the wind, ride mystical zephyrs and not hands or projectiles or claws — CANNOT COPE with standard issue anything nor metal. Must break the law to be extant. I really really intensely loved the bat. Instantly and forever. And even if I couldn’t work out how to or understand wat to make it feel really good, it felt really really good to tentative mum-touch: ripe and ready-to-eat, like some kid’s little jellied sporran, forked cellophane so microwave sweat. Or, fuck, in archaic stop-motion or treasured jewelled red Cartier movement, the wet quick skip that clicking rose to the touch and watched while the world both petered and intensified, concentrated around The Bat, the twilight. Then some family of assholes went and looked at the bat, poked the bat, maybe, and all smiles unmoved returned to their table and assholes. —I wanted to hold the bat and up to my ear to hear whatever cool lunar seas & face-down in nocturnal hay smell or dead barn something, but I was dimly aware of the caring warning off presumptuousness regarding whatever other’s consciousness. Species inclusive whatever other. Quelled, even if I totally know what it’s like to be godless & downy —Some shrank cadger cuter than handsome, scooped up, finally, and propped in lieu on a quiet sill. I can usually tell where the walls are in the dark. If I’m honest. I can usually tell the given look or sluggish echo the subsequent furrowing with a click of my fingers. Mine is totally given, shockingly. Mine is a totally given fuck, too. You too, of course. The bat, still said something desperate and I hope I helped it out.
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