Diminish, cut away all the pretense, cut away, cut away, cut away. Write with a scalpel. Give me the probe. I've been taking notes about everyone anyways. Now I can actually ask the questions I've been wondering. This feels a lot more like carving than building. Cut away, cut away, cut away.
I could interview the blind man who rides Ripta. Ask him about his dog, Abby.
I could stop a familiar stranger on Westminster Circle and begin to test my speculations.
And they can read me beneath the gossip in the Arcade.
Write found-poems from overheard-dialog onto the back of my hand.
Life, etched into my skin.
Don't speak too soon amidst the agony of creation... but I am going to learn everything, and I'm going to tell you.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."