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saturday, august 3. perhaps we never met. perhaps she never existed and i invented her or perhaps it was me, struggling to outlast my own restlessness
Category: Writing and Poetry
we still have some things in common, the city or the rooms. not exactly empty, hardly full, with the small unbalanced weight of us inside them, looking at the distance between the window and the wardrobe, the bathroom and the table, the nightstand and the bed. if they give us nothing else, there is always a bed. the highways and cities outside don't matter. i am in my room, and you are in yours, w... » Continue Reading