I’m always Jean. And I’m always the Phoenix. I died. I scattered in a trillion directions. And then started to pull together again, outside the White Hot Room. But I’m starting to see now. Parts of me… Parts of me never came home.
Pablo Neruda wrote: “may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach, may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest, because in that moment you’ll have gone so far I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?”