The effort of overdosing oneself in a place so ruined, so utterly left to crumble and fall into a state of disrepair, seemed ludicrous.
“How I could use a cigarette,’ he thought “some ash to scatter onto these forgotten stone slabs, stir the languor of this motionless air.”
How easily those, whose cracked, dry lips once came here laden with prayers and pleas, were forgotten in the rush for living.
If I focus any more on “love” I shall pass out.
My clothes already reek of it, like some heavy scent which stubbornly refuses to leave the room.
Do you remember how I got it on my sleeve by accident as I was leaning over your arm trying to reach for the butter?
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The territory of the non-written is a place so beyond the beyond that there is simply no language to describe it. At least, there is nothing in my subjective world which can.
Who doesn’t want to know at this point where they are in time, in space? It’s an isolation chamber which exists outside your brain’s conceptual boundaries.
There is no line which tells you this is the place where the sky ends, nor any line marking the sea bed. It is as immense as it is terrifying.
What would you give to find something that could lull this feeling to sleep for even a brief moment?
Our summer house was glass bottomed and suspended over the sea exactly half way between the eastern shore of America and some point on the western edge of the European mainland.
It was our secret; one might say, our ‘higher plane’ sandbox, which could have been located anywhere on earth for all that it mattered. But whose key was stored thoughtfully and safely in our imaginations.
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