Agua Viva. Ex-lover to whom she must explain. And para after para gushes out after thresholds where language goes beyond the simple or complex, beyond deviousness, and even beyond reflection or admission, to something ailing for a form. Seeps as paint does blood through the grave and the mighty. Irresolvable with hidden beauty, nestling in cracks. Luminance and void, dangling off hiatus of every breadth, every death, hearing itself scream, for murder & joy. Wild as a state of nature.

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One response to “Clarice Lispector”

  1. P Rater

    helpful!

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