clichestowrite
A big empty space inside - who are you - have we met before? I think I've been here, I would have thought it would have been with you.
Where do we go from here? - If only someone knew.
Nothing at all, really.
Don't need the reminder; that game's been played - it's old, worn out, missing in charm.
She tires. Our bodies, deserts of disavowed drives. "It's been a long day, killing time. A long day."
One day we will meet and we will just mix, like water in water.
Those words that we would do anything not to hear; images we would give anything not to have seen; truths we cannot admit that we've known, lest everything change.
My life is lived almost entirely in a castle (das Schloss) to which I am continually denied access.
The intense immanence of the world; its multiplicity that we will never comprehend. The reason for stories, and the reason for pretending that our stories are something more than what they are. Still, we soldier on -- what else might we do?
Everyone will write about freshness, youth, and the new. But baby, we're already well into Fall, dancing in October Leaves. Winter is right around the corner -- and it could be a long December.
Blood coursing through veins, but a deficit. Always deficient - the day just drags on and on, doesn't it. We met this way, some things just don't leave.
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