It is not so much palm reading any longer but the understanding of scars.
The absence of beauty can cause a physical pain, can cause a throbbing ulcer that breathes and sighs on the tender back of stolen happiness.
We are giving back these harmonies of skin to the heavens that we, like St. Teresa of Àvila, might experience God as the paroxysm of sensation.
It is dangerous, this creating. It is what has made us abdicate living for memory and fantasy.
The crescendo of life was a whispered demi-semi-quaver that married sunlight trapped behind criss-crossing black wires.
To be poor is to break under the weight of a cross everyone assumes you carved.
I turn to you my bloodied back, this predicament is a whip upon my skin, rivers could flow along the furrows of my pain.