This is just endless, apparently, so many parts and so many things to describe, and so many descriptions of parts that need to come apart before they come together.  This might get a little too explicit, this might be more about Bjork, or at least it has something more to do with Iceland than with anything else.

It's an island that's a volcano, the whole island is a volcano, and every tourist guide will tell you that the faerie folk who live here are entirely peculiar to that, the volcanic rock kind, and they seem very sweet and kind, and in truth, in truth they are, but they're also not so fucking stupid as the other kinds of faeries, not the ones who like to sprinkle children with dust so they dream about jesus and the like, these kind are far from jesus and have never taken pictures with lambs or pine cones or those kinds of castrated kittens that everyone loves to post on their walls so they have nice dreams.  This is hard, this is very hard for me, talking about faeries is always difficult for me because there is always too much to say, because I love them too much and there are so few who really understand them, and the misunderstood things that I love are the things I like to talk about, and the ones who perceive me as misunderstood and like to talk about me are my favorite ones, not because I am my favorite subject, it's because we are my favorite subject, and I don't have enough to read about us, so I have to write this.

So this is what I have, then.  The things I write about the us, and the things other people write about the us, and that's enough to read to remind me that this aching feeling that this space is apart from the world and connects me to it and makes me fearless in it, is not an illusion, but just not always reachable right now, that this, these, these things that are written, are written about us, and maybe it doesn't matter that there are only two people in the us, and maybe that's enough, or maybe that's the perfect number for what this is supposed to be.  Most of the time.  Or something like that. 

There's too much to say about the way the faeries on this island work, that this island is something apart from the rest of the world, and that the elements here make it inhabitable to very few sturdy people, but the ones who get the deeper dry cold also get the deeper dry warmth, and this might very well make them the most exotic people in the world.

I think I might mean erotic.  Or I think I might mean sensual.   Or I think I would rather mean than think, or something that comes through the fingertips, that might be sparks, but those sparks, like lifesavers, are only visible in the dark, and the only thing there is to say on a Saturday morning is that I am so sorry that I didn't touch you more when you were here, but I couldn't, and I think it was the same for you, and that makes it seem much harder.  Maybe it's like a tattoo, the way you wrote on me, like a tattoo, it can't be retouched once a year, but needs successive days of writing, re-writing, and re-writing, and we don't get to have those right now and who knows why and it doesn't matter so much anyway because I worried that I imagined you wrong, and was imagined wrong, and got to find out that we were right, the things we hoped would be true turned out to be true all along after all it's ok it will be all right everything will work out no one knows how these things will turn out it will be ok.


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