I am not an author, not a conjurer of vast, imagined worlds, rather a scribe, diligent, yes, but always with a kind of humility, a bowing of the head to the unpredictable winds that rush through the open corridors of my days. I write without agenda, rather listen to the whispers of life, the tremulous, unremarkable utterances that hover just at the edge of hearing and make up the bulk of existence. What matters to me is the elusive, half-heard music of the real, which rarely replies. So I search for a language delicate enough to catch the whisperings of that which waits beyond the horizon of comprehension. Observations must be told, must be opened like windows to let life rush in; even if no one is listening, even if the words get misinterpreted and return home wearing different clothes; that’s the law of gravity in this house of skin. What do I have the right to say? What language is left that hasn’t betrayed its meaning? A grammar of silence, maybe…

KD.W.Heim