fromaroom's profile Peter / Member since October 2007 / Last seen 9 months ago
The black dogs have lost my scent; I hear one of them’s become a guide dog for the blind man down the street. I’ve started dreaming at night. In the story (the only one he ever wrote) the idealist worked in the mortuary, prettifying corpses with chemicals: a slave to fatality, and all the rest of it. He worked with nervous attention to detail, and in the evenings sank into torpor. But this is real life now, these winds are blowing the dust off my desk; these words are being made flesh. And whatever lasts will and whatever doesn’t won’t. I’ll run through any season’s weather. I’ll drink from a different cup. Then another.
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- Published a new blog post: Desire
- Published a new blog post: In the doorway where I stood
- Published a new blog post: Holiday
- Published a new blog post: Making strange
- Published a new blog post: Emergence
- Published a new blog post: The usual story
- Published a new blog post: Sometimes it works
- Published a new blog post: Counter
- Published a new blog post: Judas
- Published a new blog post: The only poem
- Published a new blog post: Mist
- Published a new blog post: Memorandum to myself
- Published a new blog post: After the thunder
- Published a new blog post: In those first days of light
- Published a new blog post: Now and at the hour of our death
