Monday, November 1, 2010

Moving to Nowhere

There is a suitcase smell to everyday. And, the city has a glow of after life. The neat curvy highway and the neon street lights-apparitions from another birth in all their finery.

Did I get buried or did the streets and markets and people just woke up from the dust of a few centuries?
You don't mix tenses and then complain that past just looked through you, as if you didn't exist

Shoes: too muddy
Doorsteps: squeaky clean  and  too sure of their place in the world.
The lost will one day build a sail and will move to nowhere.
Carrying the impossibility of coming back as a souvenir- to put a halo of nostalgia on gone by, to brave the grey monotones of strange landscapes

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