glimpsed raze today i saw you writing longhand while your rollerblades caught their breath on the bench beside you. they were black with orange laces. your body was bent forward at such an extreme angle you were almost kissing the page. you could have if you wanted to. you might have been crafting a poem or a diary entry. painting a self_portrait in words. maybe it was a shopping list you were stitching together. or a record of what you'd just done to yourself, and how long it lasted, and how it felt. the substance of what was being written didn't matter so much. it was something organic caught in the act of being made, glimpsed from far enough away that my curious mind could shape it into almost anything. and that's what we all are to the people who see us without knowing us. isn't it? 220802 what's it to you? who go blather from