yesterday in a moment of weakness i bought John Yao's Edificio Sayonara. weakness because can i possibly need another book? but i took it off the shelf and opened it to the middle and it said "there was nothing left to send you, so I fashioned this from smoke and hair, from the remains of the day as they were handed to me by others, by those who lost their tongues and those who forgot how to speak. It was the beginning of winter or the end of fall, it was dawn or dusk, it was yes I am here, and no I am not." and that was so perfect in my mind at the moment that i felt completely unable not to aquire just one more (not so) slim volume of verse.

today i decided to start from the first page, only to discover that the first page is signed by mr. yau himself. it was as if he said, hello christina, welcome to my book. it's for you. and that made me feel like i should say, hello mr. yau, i'm glad to be here. but i can't really. say that, i mean. because some things you just cannot reciprocate. not when the gesture is in your hands and the gesturer is out taking coffee elsewhere, completely oblivious to his name saying hello just below goodbye.

Perhaps this is the moment when the babble, its lapidary soap, yields to the music inside the phone. I sew my mouth shut.