I want to tell him that I learned to write when I was barely old enough to read, because the pain took me straight out of my body, both evading and yet demanding speech. I want to show him where it dropped me: the wasteland where words pant dry, where meanings wander hollowed of their sound-bodies, where new-born and unnamed realities mouth hungrily towards the sun, waiting to be seen into meaning.
-Sondra Charbadze
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