Avert your eyes. Don't stare in wonderment at the living accident in front of you. And whatever you do don't stand so close to the flames. They may char the wreckage but they'll also lick at your heels until the backs of your perfect polished shoes are blackened sufficiently to remove the reflection of the people you're always walking away from.
The words are hardest when the sleep is lacking. Or maybe not. The writer has no desires when she doesn't sleep. No writing, no eating, no plans to be made. No brushing of the hair, no effort to find those proper black polished shoes, no effort to play nice or be aware. Just tiny annoyed raising of the eyebrows over heavy black circles for eyes (buttons if you wish) and a gloss-painted scowl shaped in a bow.
I keep my hands behind my back because otherwise in return I get the tall dark scowls hidden by beards as I type my letters on everything. Palms of hands, arms, shoulders, the back of Henry's head. The armrest built into the door of Caleb's car. The counter while I wait to ask the concierge directions and the cold marble shelf in the lobby where I sometimes wait for the car. White tablecloths in restaurants where I struggle to pronounce the offerings and Ben orders for me instead or I point and smile and do my best and then they remove the cards and I can resume the endless parade of finger-words playing a story out across my travels that amuses me endlessly.
I don't need to be entertained and if you watch me long enough, neither do you.
