Dear Ones,
I have been receiving the emails. I understand the passion, the mission, and who it is we should piss on. The problem, really, is this: meaning.
I understand.
To make meaning of the agony, something beyond/outside/other than/more than/for him/her/them// untangling the mass in the gut and splitting it up, like a cheese pizza, to share with you and you and me.
We eat off one another, soul food, relaying what we can one from the next. SOS. Watch out. I don't want this for you. My brothers. I don't want this for you.
I want that for you--hot sun turns your forearms brown, browner still, sea salt and mountain trails new with rain.
The point of it is that when we come this far--to the place where only our pain holds meaning, we unfold.
Show that. Write that. Tell that.
Show yourself. Let her see you.
In love, dear brothers,
Jeneane
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