My pieces of amber are set in gold, necklaces, earrings; it is the pleasure of hoarding them, holding them. I have dragon blood in me. I am miserly. I lie on my bed and strew the jewelry on me, feel its weight, the cold metal warming to my heat.

Did you know that all gold has its own particular grain? It does; it is
like wood; it was once alive.

I love objects like these; the simpler, the better. Perhaps it reflects
my taste in people as well.

If I look carefully at certain inferior pieces, I see a series of flaws--some object enlodged within the sap. This flaw is the desire to reveal oneself. I like people who keep to themselves, who keep the flaw to a minimum. High quality amber is clear, without clutter. But even in my pieces there can be a grain of sand, the end of a leaf. In these I often see her outstretched in the sun.

Passion weakens the fabric of my self:I disintegrate. I turn into a multiplicity. Unbelievably enough, I was once married.

This requires another entry, I think.
cf. her
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