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- nothing special, just trees and the sun . . .
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- puzzled apart together
- leaves, trees, and the sun on the last warm day of the year
- no 14
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Tag Archives: Writing
And in the end . . . She’s just something that happened, an event like any other, ephemeral like that sun on the skin or a sudden startling sound across the quiet room. But even I am not me anymore, … Continue reading
This is what it is to be in our time, to be openly anonymous, to hide nothing and in this exposure to be unseen. Visible invisibility is visibly invisible. I can see that you aren’t there and never were.
What original sin? We search for some novelty and we find such banality. Where is transgression and where is the new? There is no original sin and never was. The possibilities are as exhausted as I am . What if … Continue reading
How do you express your life without being self-important when the only important self is your self? It is, this life, it is, but it isn’t until you say it is. In the beginning was the word. But if unheard … Continue reading
I am this shadow lover, this eternal present, this one who does not exist this one here with you here tonight as you dream about someone past and . . . and future? I am not . . . and … Continue reading
There are the all subtle, and not subtle, pleasures of anger and pleasures of hate. But what do you do . . . . . . what do you do? . . . when you begin to see that there … Continue reading
Without form and of no substance, I am a disjunction between then and next as if a crack, a seam, a narrow impossible space, a contradiction to time animated and passing these animated and passing faces and moving through the strands … Continue reading
Like a hand clenched, grapsing hard but not grapsing onto anything, holding nothing but emptiness; holding nothing but what was there a moment ago. Like a hand clenched, my body. For so many weeks I wouldn’t sleep with this tight, … Continue reading
Despite the light’s warm clarity, that was the darkest summer of my life. She approached, then fled, then approached, then fled. An illusion like shimmering black silk in the night below her pale face. A mirage; she was a mirage. … Continue reading