A bond can be born of natural creeping, of slow regeneration and a marrying of substance and limb. It's the letting go, the release, that allows for natural synthesis to happen. But sometimes this fusion becomes too hot. Less natural than it is synthetic. You become aware of the melting, the festering, the divinely unnatural metamorphosis. Flesh tugged from the bone and collagenic fiber pooling, pulling. Pulling out little personal idioms, exclamations, the tone with which you say goodbye. This interpersonal linguistic artistic collaboration can feel like a merging of bodies, a jumbling of limb and form. It’s hard to know where one of us ends and another begins. But who is the solderer? I’ve attempted many times to get to know him. I speak to him with an intimacy he doesn’t care for. I find myself reaching out to touch the iron, pulling away a little later than I should. That’s that searing again, that smell of something that’s gotten too hot.