domingo, 12 de febrero de 2012

Slow sunday

And Virginia's cat continues filching fish in the corner of our eyes... so we watch and count the spines - see where the tail drops; It leaves an oily mark, as the clouds passing rivet the shadows like rivers across our faces. Our stained hands are heavy, for there is nothing on which to hold a firm grip, long dissolved is the comfort in which we were warmly held.

Pencil on paper

"There is the puddle,' said Rhoda, "and I cannot cross it. I hear the rush of the great grindstone within an inch of my head. Its wind roars in my face. All palpable forms of life have failed me. Unless I can stretch and touch something hard, I shall be blown down the eternal corridors for ever. What, then, can I touch? What brick, what stone? and so draw myself across the enormous gulf into my body safely?"


No hay comentarios:

Publicar un comentario