LB Temuco is a creation, a conflagration of naive, simple unexpected feelings. There was no moment of birth, no conscious beginning just a backward design from what changes daily in the strange, limitless condition of the human heart. The writer is more selfish than generous; more cowardly than brave. The narrative is more ordinary than exceptional and, in this, is more a prisoner to reason than the fearless acolyte to grace and beauty that it would wish to be.
Turn over
Lets burn down all the bridges
lets drown deep
in the torrent
...
Behind opaque windows, above all reflection.
It matters not where the night abandons you, day after day.
We all offer our understood confessions
You, my forgiveness for having not found all this sooner.
...
There is silver across my eyes
Spread like a chain
I lay my face against the colour of a tree
In the midst of a thousand swans
...