There’s precedent for it. The angular sun on windows or the blustery light through the wind. The leaves and trash raised an inch, dying down, settling again. It gives me great pleasure to view this ancient power fading, to see this orange disc through the latticework of a leafless tree.
Today, a day for gathering: loose money and fresh walnut bread, apples, old white shirts- starched and dry-cleaned. To look at one's own life from afar, as if one were viewing one's hand with a great and mysterious detachment.
The words we know and the words we don't are mirrored in our gestures. Nothing translates in winter and our heads are filled with second thoughts. My hands are dry and empty.
A story by Breece sounds hollow,contrived. There is nothing to follow, no letters, no staged performances, just this slim volume, a life condensed within this thin jacket, the imprint of a hand on a windowpane. If this is not winter, then what is?
Today, a day for gathering: loose money and fresh walnut bread, apples, old white shirts- starched and dry-cleaned. To look at one's own life from afar, as if one were viewing one's hand with a great and mysterious detachment.
The words we know and the words we don't are mirrored in our gestures. Nothing translates in winter and our heads are filled with second thoughts. My hands are dry and empty.
A story by Breece sounds hollow,contrived. There is nothing to follow, no letters, no staged performances, just this slim volume, a life condensed within this thin jacket, the imprint of a hand on a windowpane. If this is not winter, then what is?
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