I write his scratched word into a record. My time, his daughter’s hot, long day. I write to find water. I write of him to see that he was, to see that he was my father, was one of my people. He was one. He is one, two, many people. He said “we can”. I did write my father with his “we can”, with his hot, long sound, water for his daughter’s word. No sound did come out. No scratched word made it down to my father’s record, like these.
I did find water. I did find my sound, scratched in his record. He was my father. This, his daughter’s record, is my word, my find, my ‘him’.
We could write so long on ‘father’, we could write a long scratched record of ‘him’. We could out all of his sound, many may look to this, number my word. Each word divides a record of time that you and I know, that they will see as ‘them’ as ‘scratched’.
I know this, but I write. I am his. I am his daughter’s time. I am his record and so I look to record all the sound, each word he did make, each time he said ‘how’, each ‘and’.
At first people will dry their time, the record scratched, hot with no sound to water to water the father they could not find. We could make this long thing a time to use. We could call them in, water people with the sound, make a long thing, a long time, many people, a record of many people, each their own scratched daughter’s word. We could. At first people may side with ‘him’. Then with ‘her’. In time they will know two people as one thing.
When each word has a deeper use people will know. This time I write, I know. I know he has been.
I know water. I know the sound of that record I scratched. I know each downside, but by some hot overlook I write his sound, know it will be my water, know. I know I will have some of him to find each scratched day in this, my time.