begin veintici8nco years later, this newspaper
What is missing, like the dreams that we did not, or not even reach to rebuild, remember, it is up to us. It is not matter for now.
matter, in any case, what might germinate, as in a fist, what remains, cereal, nourish the blood which is flooding and defining, with their beat, with its presecia, with their ink, viscose continuity, soft agony.
Every morning you open the book of things passed and the unprecedented circumstances, despite the usual, rituals and endless repetitions of the im age of the water hitting your face, or the effervescent need the touch of the fibers on the body, sometimes naked, after a steamy encounter with crystal clarity, or the most stubborn dark joy, the sweat, the mine site.
What we find, then, is the perfect ineditez or ineditud, our own fault of our own excess. No more and no less is required to continue saying so I move, or so I think about the other, which accompanies my voice, my circunsancia, my emptiness.
The first time, then I left, for all the bed-tent, custom, repeated ad nauseam, of being a child, tied to nothing but anecdotal twinkling eyes, being in a rhythm, sleep pat . And meet, suddenly, there is a fire cn a daily basis to renew, together, together, because that would be and then and thereafter, you and I, accompanied the body, the extensiveness of me with accurate your mirror, a you with my surroundings, my adjective, my presence a'm in front of your multi, multicolored, changing flame indispensable for all the days that follow, we are missing, fill us.
To want or not, have you near, do in the company, the duration of sleep or the reality of the projects.
Already have a home to feed, clothe and multiple walls, the house we'd keep for a few months, the incandescent, unique, first time for everyday memories. Those who gave us the choice of perspectives (the side where you sleep, the space being left your stuff, and the vast enormity of the equipment, and the sounds and the fabrics and the vials of tastes, scents, preferences, remnants, which populate stage, adventure, the bellicose truce, of a life together, for the pleasure of being. corroborating promises made (and made) weeks, months, when you said, advocating that we were not bored nucna (rather than us always going to have fun.)
March 14, 2010
wish I could say the last time. Stripped of ghosts that follow others. Perhaps concentrate on the woman who heads a black and white film, while running the sixties, or siquietra before his eyes, but against the cigarette smoke distillate by pressing and holding, complacent, as we look and give the reason for a reflection. Perhaps
to write a world or to uncover precise, the evocation of a moment. That's what it would be, nothing more, the fruition of the word. Evoke
perhaps places around the stubborn dream or waking. Picking while sipping the right words to say some of his staunch stubbornness, his willingness to blue things difficult. As a fresh
the wall over the question of small circumstances of one's life, connected on huge tapestries or bulky carpet dotted with what each day gives us, in tabular form musical sound or flashing (the wealth or the single market pass to the façades in a humid afternoon, TANC backplate of the house of one) all mixed with the brightness of the corner that intersects with the white of a wall exist.
not asking for anything other pens award-winning air. Restricted to having one's own reach. And give gloss or wallow in their opacity. To this are the words that one must wrest from the palette that holds in one hand while dressed with the imagination that must go like this picture reveals that draws indelible piano runs that tape before breaking into the voice hearing harmonious murmurs phrases in a language that could be wood, and water; fortress protecting a port or simple boat, passing the night oscillating reflecting on its rough surface, a white disk, almost perfect.
Nothing more, while dreaming. Perhaps the placidity of the meeting, so like the caress of love cial under a translucent lamp, mute, whose filament melts and covers rolling blanket of pits, the bodies delivered to each other, to transform the essence in sighs and groans, White and whispery, string vociferous crowd awakened by sounds plaintive qeu timber containing them and guide them.
Mustitar the end, the calm of the notes building a cathedral to the sounds that emerge from those two bodies exhausted, sweaty, confused, who keep their pain for other watches, other lienzoa.
Undated apparent.
(footnote: weird things happened: the original text, and restored, erased, then add the snap undated; and ad hoc search for two images). was, for now, for some, send an email with the addition of texts that can be combined and printed with these images. just trying to recover a moment of clarity to accompany other writing lulls. was, then, in March 1910, look no more, 2011)
eleven twenty things
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