Your words are holy writ, but my ears are stuffed with rags. Speak louder, please. I want to understand you, not merely worship your image. You are what you write and what you write is wonderful, but my language skills are lacking. I am not adept at solving riddles.
I search for movement and meaning as nouns and verbs dance across the page. I want to run my mind along the edge of each part of your speech, feeling its flaws and perfections as tactile properties. I want to absorb your metaphors through the pores of my skin, breathe your allusions like rose-scented air, and cradle your insights like a new-born babe.
I am a pilgrim under a tree -- hands folded in prayer -- waiting for enlightenment. I've placed flowers at your soul's shrine. I've burned incense at your heart's alter. I've swept the temple precincts with a broom of new-cut straw, hoping to find solace in the space between lines of fire and ice.
Clear this intoxicated brain. Say something more. Something I can understand without translation. Say something kind.
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