The gap in a bone. Skin. The region just above the external genitals. It all affects me. If I write, I place my body on the page; Sexually, as Boris Vian would say in L’Herbe Rouge. And instead of a classical purity of tone I struggle to make work that is imperfect, that shifts in tempo and texture, that confronts in flesh and keeps me from this almost automatic urge to self-manage desire; to anesthetize the sex.