If this confined chamber is trapped by madness, then this mind and voice is not lost but drowned in this room. What if a romantic illusion is not a disease? To witness a soundless object and wish to reshape its statuette through sculpted means of communication. How shall I speak to you? Through a glass shell, a mouth left open, a tongue cut out, casting light on a table, or through a twirled curtain strangling the view of a small window. Let me be visible to you. Breathe through this new ribcage. My legs have been stretched, shed like two scarves, rippling and suffocating a sea. Motion has become my willingness to be understood. I will lift myself like a sword; feel thrashes of daggers in between. Bleed through silence and sacrifice; find the face that will lead me to understand names, swim through this pain. Balancé, reach wide, hold this steady gaze. Seep between these flooding doors. Understand how elongation becomes a source of longing rendered still upon vanishing into blurred movement.