Tuesday, July 26, 2011

eventually it will break your heart.

bury your maps, they'll find all your pots and pans; cross all your hands, one finger at a time.
you'll be found in a land of savages, maybe you don't know what you've got.
husk to hide and i know, you're not spending your money on a desert rose
- holy dances and acronyms for bones
- holy dances, beach house


it's tangible, this silence
white-brick-wall solid.
sickening sickness,
spreading quietly
white-noise explosion
of white-brick-wall shards
alone. lonely.
alone. lonely.
beckoning. bickering.
beckoning. bickering.
disease. demise.
white-brick-wall solid.

every now and then i would feel a violent stab of loneliness. the very water i drink, the very air i breathe, would feel like
long sharp needles. the pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. i
would hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o clock in the morning.
haruki murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle