I crumbled up the piece of paper and threw it on the windowsill. I wish that the window had opened, that the writing would escape my world falling out into the open air.
The beer bottles sat on the desk empty, their effects were lingering in my dulled brain.
The book's spine pointed to the ceiling, the pages open spread out like wings.
The box was slightly open, crammed with letters from the past.
The dance floor had just two or three couples moving to the salsa music. The band was on its last number, the dancers were moving more sluggishly; taken over by the late night, the alcohol, and their lust.
I still can't remember what she looks like and it was only yesterday that I saw her last, that's why I keep a picture of her close to my person.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Everything involving the sphere of loss --- that is, what I have lost of myself, the time that has gone; and disappearance, flight and the general evanescence of things, and even what in the prevalent and therefore most vulgar social sense of time is called wasted time – all this finds in that strangely apt old military term, lost children.
No comments:
Post a Comment