“We have art in order not to die of life.”

Is there anything more replenishing and revitalizing than a lovely, long, very hot bath with a good … or at least interesting … book? Our bodies are made up of what, 80-some percent water? Perhaps we need to spend more time communing therein. I know I do. Scrubbing away the impurities of the day, washing away my iniquity, braiding damp shining hair with dexterous fingers – it’s so nice and unexpected to look in the mirror and smile at who I see.

I’m cutting tonight, sweeping as wide a path through the smaller pieces – Nom!, Kong YiShi, Genesis – as I can to facilitate a night wrapped in copper foil and solid soldering. Jieda is laid out on my second homosite board, but No, Kathleen is calling to me, and if we’re talking consumption, I’ll have to give in to the call.

I can already feel the hammer striking the glass, the cracks spidering out, the most minimal trace of grinding to preserve the authenticity of the looking glass smashed to smithereens. My fingers itch to strike sharp-edged triangles, strong and fierce like blood and burns from glass blood red and opaque black. I can see myself a hundred times over in the layers upon layers of broken dreams and hopes. Perhaps not the mirror to hang in your child’s nursery, but strong despite all its flaws. Like me. Like so many I love. Except my father – he’s perfect.

I’ll retire to my cutting now, as bed already beckons, and my torn skin calls for soothing lotions. I’ve certainly picked a bad time to begin sleeping, but what I’ve done before, I can do again. For now.

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