O narratives, they do hate me so. Or so I thought. Memories, o memory, thou art in fragments, or even worse, in shards. Rags and shreds: non-recyclable, except as rags and shreds.
Will you sustain me, o memory in shards and shreds, will you remember me? You are not a person, though; you are a region in the universe where dust comes and goes, va et vient, o traffic! No lights, please. Only sounds, and only sounds of grass shaking, and of roots speaking underground, under the hills.
Hungry for memory, and memories, you do comfort me so.
No comments:
Post a Comment