I bed my name beside yours, it is a proper name. The garden’s borders are marked by the abscission of leaves. Beneath the surface is another absence, the figment in the water another form of consciousness. I always mistake a rivet for a rivulet, phantoms for fathoms, aphasia for a phase. Creeks are broken because they refract. The arrangement of rocks form a sentence without sense, séance without a scene. Parts from a passing apparition, a gathering of debris, furnishes the air. To pray again but to the water where only echoes lamp the way there.

Bernard Capinpin is interested in interfaces and interstices, nodes and networks. He resides in Quezon City.