Friday, December 4, 2009

How To Sand A Shuffleboard

late.


He wrote live before writing. I tried, at length. Often, I wrote while living. Leafless or pencil, no keyboard and no screen, just by thinking, by putting into words what my mind did not. And then I give up. I write.

is a light at the bottom of her eyes, a desire to sleep with clear what will become unlikely. There is no music, no alcohol or substance barely legal. There's just question marks and commas too many. This text is chopped, written for an asthmatic crisis. If we had a set, it would be a picture of a catalog Ikea. Too much thinking about things, they leave their taste. Tasteless. The story ends worn by his fault.

him: he was lost forever. It lies the bottom of a spirit. Some say he is still breathing. I think so.

She: she is radiant. She believes in the future as a jihadist paradise.

Me: Spain. I finally discovered. It changes from day to day and much remains to be done. The weight of tradition, the downside of modernity. And people. As beautiful as elsewhere. As stupid as elsewhere. Damn globalimondialisation . I have to go where I lose? Farther surely .

If you feel like worry, too. We write?

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