Thursday, 6 December 2012
44
We wandered
about like a pair of lost children, almost tearing up. We read the inscriptions
out loud, where they said “Don’t fear poverty, fear debt. Don’t fear
ghosts, fear people.” And this one line from an old book I’d been reading kept repeating
itself in my head “A few hundred happy years passed by”. We’d come across a row
of golden rooftops and be lost for a while. Coming back to find the path we’d
get distracted again. The peace was a sickness that made us too slow to leave.
We stayed for the whole day and it felt like time changed. A few hundred happy
years passed by.
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...dude, what've you been taking these last days? opening up abyss after abyss of very nice apocalyptic sweetness. It's a pity that these bits float about like jelly shrapnel instead of being worked into a coherently text of schizophrenia.
ReplyDeletePS: have now learned that shrapnel does not, as indicated above, refer to " fragmentation thrown out by an exploding bomb or shell." This, I am informed is called "fragments." Uhum.