Water passes through us—our gaping mouths allow this. Becoming inside. We try to contain but keep spilling. Ingesting back into us; schemas like bailing, image like substance through multiple filters. Winding through similar thought patterns and lapping up against foreign territory, winding around words that repeat themselves. We repeat each other.
We lean up and push ourselves against surfaces. Surfaces give way to complete each other or crumble into smaller substances collecting in piles around our feet. Residue might be the negative space of bodies. We keep pieces of things that nobody else wanted but couldn’t find the heart to bury. Once they carried meaning now they are rubbing up against each other and are losing their distinctions. Turning each other different colors and leaving marks as they skid and tumble across the page.
This landscape is a record of the hands these thoughts have moved through. An impression of the spaces and times that have been carved. We kneel by the riverside with rubber gloves, cataloguing debris. We write our own topography as water passes through us, as words rub against our surfaces, as we grind along peripheries, as pieces of our bodies break and crumble to the floor.