January 2011
“If a man we don’t know phones us up and talks a little, makes no...”
– Paulo Coehlo, “The Witch of Portobello.”
Ecclesiast.
Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living. The night is cold and delicate and full of angels Pounding down the living. The factories are all lit up, The chime goes unheard. We are together at last, though far apart.
I take that back.
I do know what to do. Continue this without a care. Because we’re the only ones who matter.
Everybody is somebody's secret.
Because I think this is the only place you don’t know about, I will talk about what’s going on.
I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be the girl you say you’re in love with before and after you go out with your girlfriend.
I think the saddest thing is how much I think about her. It’s probably more than you do. I don’t think about what...
Everybody is somebody's secret.
Remember when you heard it? You didn’t think about it. You opened up your ears and listened, felt it smashing through the pretense, through scabs of inhibition, that the world stitched to your shoulder like a mission, it echoed like lips meeting, and it fluctuated violently, filled your heart and lungs up with redemption. Kind of like an ending, but more like a beginning, and even though...
You are the only exception.
“Oh, Will,” she said, “what can we do? Whatever can we do? I want to live with you forever. I want to kiss you and lie down with you and wake up with you every day of my life ‘till I die, years and years and years away. I don’t want a memory, just a memory…” “No,” he said, “memory’s a poor thing to have. It’s your own...
Personal DNA.
<a href=”http://www.personaldna.com/report.php?k=leDFVaSrkcioKfb-OA-ADAAA-fa05”> My personalDNA Report</a>
