vanishing point

we finish our dreams, slippery, push each one into each other’s mouths like warm berries. there are only two stories, he says. a small, wet knot holds him together. someone new shows up, or someone goes on a journey. it’s the same thing, i think. our blueblood hearts, the horizon berry-colored. he squeezes it, and a dream drops out. there’s only one story, he says, and looks right at me, which is like looking away. someone loses something.

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"One writes out of one thing only...

...one's own experience. Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give. This is the only real concern of the artist, to recreate out of the disorder of life that order which is art."     -James Baldwin