I am in here.
I have taken the few night medicines that I am given these days, and do some general reading until the words start taking on a three dimensional look to them. When they can’t make any more sense to myself, and to write is to never make sense. Then you must go to sleep. I certainly … Continue reading The addle-patedness of some would be writer.
Found over at Eamonn Fitzgerald’s Rainy Day: Hurried Love Hurried Love Those who make hurried love don’t do so from any lack of affection or because they despise their partner as a human being — what they’re doing is just as sincere as a more formal wooing. She may have a train to catch; perhaps … Continue reading Hurried Love
Things That Are Perfect Though a favor to the feet, to the shoes the sandals are bare skeletons. An olive tree lives two thousand years but tends to remember nothing. Things that are perfect sow terror in me. I don’t like them. My handwriting’s skewed, my gait more so, doing my best. — Kirmen Uribe … Continue reading Things That Are Perfect, from (Notes on) Politics, Theory & Photography: Kirmen Uribe
HE drowsed and was aware of silence heaped Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep. Silence and safety; and his mortal shore Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. Someone was holding water to his mouth. He swallowed, unresisting; … Continue reading The Death-Bed
white pebble 