Close

My voice and your dead gaze, X tells me. My voice and the voices that come through to me, down here in my hole. Your dead gaze against the circle of so-called light up there. The voices I hear when I feel close to you, that come through to me when I think your eyes see me. The voices that take part in you, that partake in you. What does that mean? he says. Only the voices themselves can give a hint, he says. The voices and their interruptions: when one ends and another starts up. But when they come close, down here in the hole, when they come through the earth and right into my ear like whispers, that’s when I think we’re close, he says, that’s when I think we see each other. That’s when I think I talk to you. But I don’t, do I?

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