maybe it's enough to let rain waterloosen it, to glimpse the possibility of nakedness. the mask slides, sticks, slides again. i cry for only the second time since coming here. tears roll, and the whole carapace crumbles. it's not so much a question of giving it up. the mask begins to give you up because it has no function for you anymore. lying down, my rib cage floats. it rises to the ceiling and hangs there. from it dangle wrists, knuckles and knees, the bones as light as toys. rain comes hard, and morning light is washed black as if the tsunami's shadow wave had inked the air and gone back to scrape darkness from stone. i'll read one last little bit. so, um, pause there was no place -- because there was no place to live most of the trip, i ended up going to stay at the drive's house, if you want to call it a house. it was a bit of a very wonderful traditional but very rundown place way up in the mountains. it took several hours to get there from the coast, two or three hours. and so we spent a lot of time in his van, his sort t of hippie van. it was really great. and