by: p. botte

They were there, by the fire.  They were there, naked by the fire.  They were there in the heat of the tongues of flame, licked by the glow and the moonlight.  They were there, alike to each other and yet different enough that their eyes knew nothing of their language.  How can we speak to one another? one thought of the other.  And, true enough, when they opened their mouths to try, all the other saw was a hole full of jagged teeth.  And so they shrank back to their respective sides of the fire.  By the fire.  Naked by the fire.  All words mean something until they are put together and we find out they mean something else entirely.  But of course, when you’re standing naked by the fire, there is no real space for words.  There is only heat and skin and night and warmth and a terror held at bay.  All else is forgotten.  And, indeed, all is forgotten.  For there are no words.  No strings of words.  No groupings of sounds.  No thing.  Nothing.