Writing to a writer

Writing to a writer with her counterintuitive entrainment; the writing flows and holds its own ebbing, its entrances and exits, its immersions into atonement without a safety net, turning limbo blanks into a room with a view. That is what it is, what it means to write to a writer ... waves of time to match and enclosures with rounded holes and gaps to peruse. Her freshness and gusts fall on your face like petals in rapture, on your reader's bosom, entranced and free to look in.

You are told things and read them with pleasure. She states each sentence anew and drops in and drops out. You follow the steady whirlwind, stacks of backtracking waves surrender and call for many more moments like this. In a language abreast there's no way to tell what will follow next, what will pass you by and stay, what goes. Words are redeeming but also guilty and force you to an unsure redemption. Then all is forgotten without remnants left, like butterflies in stampede, freed cut out shapes on tracing paper. Small is enough to fill the writing in, the page wraps you up when you are written to by a writer. The passionate asunder arrives, and yet ... you are the passionate observer turning from voyeur into flâneur.