Thursday, December 22, 2011

Early morning lessons

A squatter's life goes until 5 in the morning. It doesn't sleep much, it listens for rats and mice in the dark. The life tries to stay as far away from knowledge as possible.

When you're somewhere between state lines and you have delusions of grandeur, I hope you'll think of the sky, because it sees you as much as you see it.

The night sometimes wants a bit of space, so it pushes everything away with gentle breezes. And onto the next place you should go. Don't mistake its politeness.

In between pieces of gravel there are pieces of smaller gravel, and those pieces disjuncture to make gaps that whisper fire's crackle in light and dark. You can hear them if you want, but they only sound when made to; they're phantasmal.

When your lover one day takes her brittle arms and wraps them onto the railing of a train, kicking one leg up, and chanting incantations, you should gather distance. The sight is perfection.

If your pupils don't dawdle long I fear I'll assume the worst. They should constrict and elaborate something of your solitude.

When the gravel under the train speaks you'll feel more than see your nightly lover parting, but that feeling will be numb, and especially frozen at 5 am in the squatter's palace. 

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