Two – paired – instinctively in conjunction,

roving within these elliptical spaces to set neurons into color.

And when my eyes go milky white with the signature blue-ish hue,

“white blindness” will leave me prey in the physical sphere to

terrifyingly enlighten me on the human soul, as Saramago once told. 

A single broad surface with five phalanges.  I can spare a few.

Only two are needed to grab a pen.  And only one to type slowly.

Right-handed.  The stories are written.  And when my fingers

are too arthritic to move, the stories will continue inscribing themselves,

the limbic node etching its enigmatic stories upon a wrinkled forehead. 

And when death finally cradles me to sleep.

Dis-embodied.  Liberated from these deceiving layers.

Perhaps I will finally be able to answer the question,

“Who Are You?” but how will you hear my non-voice?

And will I be who I was as a child?

Will I be who I am now?  Which has just passed? 

You ask, “Who are you?”

I meditate upon Hericlitus.

And I’m afraid to answer for fear of lying. 

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