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I conceal myself behind simple things so you’ll find me; if you don’t find me, you’ll find the words, you’ll feel what my hand has felt, our hand-prints will become one. The February moon glitters in the kitchen like a steel-coated pot, (it grows that way because of what I’m saying to you), it illuminates the empty house and the house’s passing silence–always the silence remains passing. Every word is a gateway to a meeting, one often abandoned, and that’s when you’ll know that a word is true: when it persists on the meeting.