6/22/19 write about the possibilities

Right about possibilities. Wright; about possibilities. Write about possibilities.

I love the way the tongue moves, don’t you, Mr. Wright? I love the way we can hear tongues around words. The way it flicks around a word, inflecting, making concrete a thing that will never be a tangible thing, a word. The tongue shapes and sculpts a word into something you can hold, even though of course you can’t. That’s the magic of our tongues.

I’ve always felt magic on my tongue, you know. I feel it in the center of it, in the soft bowl of it, in the soft pooling middle of it. It loves my breath, this magic, but it is not my breath, it is just the magic of my tongue, living in my mouth, preening and breeding itself languorously until it’s time to move up and out. Its warm, and tingly, and it does love my breath oh so much, it moves forward and back with my breath like sea anemones in the current. Mmm.

Mmm mmm mmm a community of vivid languorous sea anemones hedonistically writhing with the current of my breath is the magic on my tongue. The magic that lives in the pool of my tongue. It might be mine? Probably is, temporarily. My magic, my tongue, my sea anemones, passed down and passed down and passed down through my blood, through my bones, through my electric delight. Did I ever tell you I have magic on my tongue? I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone. I’ll let you taste it, maybe. If you like. And if I like. Mostly if I like. But probably my like is your like —right, Wright? Aren’t we all breathing the same current? Mr. Wright? Mr Right? Writhing writing mist-like like?