And to sleep, of course, to sleep is possible and has to be done, but from where to start all this tremendous sleep? From the memory used as a crocked table, where to put the sweet dirty of the days? Or from your hands, disappeared in distant boxes of fog and meetings, from your intermittent eyes, half hare and half sparkle colour of the rice? Or maybe the sleep has to start inside the tiny contractions of the innards, inside the strain of the blood, where the poisons bake cake of breath to feed the pain of being, of having being? But sometime, in those days as a tourist, the tourist of the love of someone else, I believe that the sleep starts with the first sight, inside the scream that anticipates the tears, and that the brief scraps of closed eyes on the darkness, those are not the sleep, but to chew courage, to postpone the fatigue of living: fatigue which, for childish and strange reasons, we call to sleep, we call to dream. youtube/watch?v=gnnevN-vG0k
Posted on: Sat, 07 Sep 2013 15:44:08 +0000
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