They are not real

Thinking of pronouns as receptacles. Characters as containers. To be filled with what it is I am thinking about. Immense and limitless when pronouns. Concise and finite when characters. There's a freedom when I stop thinking of pronouns as people. Any sort of notion of reality is supplied by the reader. Language need not be concerned with reality--readers take care of that--only surfaces, ornamentation, acrobatics, vehicularizing across the page all the stuff that gathers within. They took a bath today. Little water, the leftovers from washing the clothes. They let what they had been hiding roll forth across each other's senses, like marbles spilled from an untied bag, like hardwood floors was the sound of vulnerability in their ears. They were naked, and soft--loving and aware. They were illogical, wet, bird-like, whimsy plastered upon a window, curtains' sole purpose to ornament. They were never told that we start with a floor, then move through space, and end with a ceiling. Not today they weren't, and many more days piled up in the folds of their skin. They washed the dishes with the very little water that was left. Held out buckets towards each other; took buckets in return. They were yellow, limp, and descending into garbage piles, if only to dispel the notion of garbage.