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  • And this is how I imagined love.

    Not clean and seraphic but inchoate and irregular, forms refracted and barely discernible through the fog of peeling mirrors. At the centre, the vague nucleus of bodies birthed from stone, a conflagration of souls, a hand which reaches for another here, a thick, catastrophic beauty, bold in its inexactness.

    The sculptor would make love to his models. They were convinced it was to find their line, the angle of bone, the harbour of the hips, the cords in the neck. He would knead them in his hands, grasping handfuls of flesh. But in his secret drive, he sought the impossible -- reaching not for shape or outline but for the very scream which gives rise to these forms.

    We live like this, amongst things that are half-formed, struggling into being. Things like love, desire, the onslaught of the self ... which are made and then undone then remade again.

    And this is how I imagined love, because language broke down from confessions and professions to glances and touch and the callow space in between us.
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