I
In his own world.
And not too bad off. Just the way it is.
for a long time
and chance had been toying with them
Winter notes: He was in his own world. Always was, from childhood, which he never really left. For others, every beginning was also an ending.
I suppose you think this is about you.
He wants to and does not want to sleep. Zeus! The cells in the body stay startled, dazed-awake, through the early hours, and the floating grey half-light, as if covered by a shroud, or lost in gentle summer shadows, ready for some recollection to march into their territory.
He was all flesh and blood for a few minutes, singing, shining, silver-back in the dark; and then he was all mind.
Drift, drift, sail away from here. There are socks on the floor, frozen into shape. The mirror is still and lonely. On the table a large and bright golden bowl with packets of medicine in it.
In the morning he saw the moon, a large and pale ball, aloof, fragile, ephemeral, more beautiful than the green and blue world below it. The moon was a door, the memory of a fire, a houri.
A child somewhere (and therefore everywhere) asks: "Who broke it?". Does he ever grow out of that sense of brokenness?
"I'm quite happy in the world I'm in," he said. "There is no need to disturb me".
She texts him and says, "You are angry. Are you an angry person?"
He says, calmly, trying to deflect all attention from himself, "Look at my words."
In his own world.
And not too bad off. Just the way it is.
for a long time
and chance had been toying with them
Winter notes: He was in his own world. Always was, from childhood, which he never really left. For others, every beginning was also an ending.
I suppose you think this is about you.
He wants to and does not want to sleep. Zeus! The cells in the body stay startled, dazed-awake, through the early hours, and the floating grey half-light, as if covered by a shroud, or lost in gentle summer shadows, ready for some recollection to march into their territory.
He was all flesh and blood for a few minutes, singing, shining, silver-back in the dark; and then he was all mind.
Drift, drift, sail away from here. There are socks on the floor, frozen into shape. The mirror is still and lonely. On the table a large and bright golden bowl with packets of medicine in it.
In the morning he saw the moon, a large and pale ball, aloof, fragile, ephemeral, more beautiful than the green and blue world below it. The moon was a door, the memory of a fire, a houri.
A child somewhere (and therefore everywhere) asks: "Who broke it?". Does he ever grow out of that sense of brokenness?
"I'm quite happy in the world I'm in," he said. "There is no need to disturb me".
She texts him and says, "You are angry. Are you an angry person?"
He says, calmly, trying to deflect all attention from himself, "Look at my words."
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