strand raze your sister writes a book about a woman a world away from anyone she's been before. light pulses from a pen that burns words into a stack of pages wreathed in the dark mist of an unworn shirt. there's a picture of her in a record store. twilled cloth coat. hair down. eyes on the prize. her taste in vinyl an enduring mystery. there are other pictures, in a photo_album light years from here. coarse curls that couldn't cross the dividing line between childhood and adolescence. the strangest way you've ever seen someone sleep. the threadbare prayer of a smile on the night of your grade school graduation. old teeth loose and leaving to make room for the new. you know where the still images end and conjecture strains to fill_in_the_blanks. you don't ask if she's kept any of the photographs she took of you. it's enough to watch her work. 250301 what's it to you? who go blather from