Interstice: A Collection of Writings
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At all costs, what are given here are fragments, pieces, bits of glass. They are given with the painful knowledge that they do not begin to impart who I am, nor what I believe in. Yet they are given because they could not be kept. They are the slivers that slipped through the skin; the water tumbling over the dam, a part neither of the river above, nor the rapids below, caught, mid-air, in the INTERSTICE between being found, and finding all over again.