if only we could keep the words that are said, are sent, that drip from our tongues, in flecks across someone elses brain, wherever it is that these words go and are trapped and strung and sorted, and made into colour, a spark, and nothing. we keep photographs in boxes, or we tear them up, but words just come and go. not the posed words of a book, but the rough things, the blurry wants, the young babble, the scathing attacks, the wretched graves...