Maybe it's in color. Maybe it's white. Tomorrow. The day after. Silky like sad eyes are when they blink. The crack of joints misaligned in every word we speak. Blades of grass stabbing through wet snow as the winter pulls us into its nightmare again. Tepid glass inhaling what's left of me since the light went off. Fragments of life stolen into sparse manias. Our voices like retarded punctuation marks defile the truth.
Everything is velvet. Everything is soft. The moon bandaged in clouds while we search the sky for something more than words. Solvent in our predicaments. Alledged as they are. Pushing the needle through the rock. Imagining the stitches. As the thread runs out.
The light. I don't bother turning it on anymore. There's plenty to see without it.
The hem. Well, it's close enough. Even though I sometimes still trip on it.
Falling has its charms. Addiction has its wisdoms.
In all the ways that the bad things make us better.
Thursday
2/01/2007 11:39:00 PM
this was tactile, but not as good as hyperbole below, which was one of your best yet.
Falling has its charms. Addiction has its wisdoms.
Am highly tempted to steal this.
everything is only spectacular until we come up with something better. that's why we keep creating, no?
personally i hate 99.7% of what i write. but the other 0.3% makes me want to keep trying.
miao - it's good becuz it's true. there's so much more to learn and to love from misery than there is in happiness.
I'm believing that 0.3% is hyperbole. Anyway, Samuel Johnson said that if a writer thinks what they've written is perfect they should destroy it at once. The internet is overflowing with people who think their writing is perfect - it's, for the most part, what give the web its bad reputation.
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