Filled with spaces Monday 26 November 2012 5.30 a.m.

There is a little piece of grey left over in my own beard.
Filled with spaces, spaces for a few others, spaces down the side and along the fences.
My hand is watching you, I cut it off.
I am immune to it, not listening.
I have carved out my own section of meaning in the sand, a bowl of sand sown round carved cave, I stay here.
Crabs
I stay here waiting for
I stay here hoping
I stay here, there are others outside.
Voices, darkness.

She starts to laugh.

A waterproof jacket drips, the drops onto the floor, peeing into a glass, my own mother mortified.
I fill it up and walk away.
You are shaking, there is sweat on your brow, I want to hold it.
The space between action and desire, and in the midst of it all I fall in love again and again, falling over, catching myself, squeezing, yearning, hearing voices trying to let them drop away, sinking having wanting my hand in yours, the grip tighter than I asked.
Not pushing enough.
Wanting to be buried and squashed, to be hidden, submerged, barely breathing in bodies. Wanting to feel flesh and bone locking down, heavy, layered hot outside and in.
A hot intense burning sensation of pain. Wanting to feel a sharp cutting opening sensation, opening out, sweating, bleeding..
Tightening bodies closing in.
A violent flooding pounding rage.
Running towards you, bullfight shoulder thud.
No one is hurt in my head, thudding is in my head.

The space between making, watching, doing, creating, reflection, generating material, refining material, building work.