since birth we have been collecting. we collect friends.
we collect possessions, family, lovers, property (poverty?). this one and that one, this and that. we cling to each one, and there is fear. and when we die not one of these things helps. instead of helping, our collection destroys us because we did not remember death.
a limited time only.
crack is whack.
It really was the strangest thing, and I think it all started with the weather. It was a miserable day, nothing out of the ordinary but as the sun began to set it began to blare. A warm amber glow came through the clouds contrasted against the bright blue behind, the type of blue that only happens after the sky has been emptied. Regardless, I was on the bus home daydreaming about nothing looking out the window as the council estate passed by. I wasn’t being particularly nosey, nor did I care to be, I was just looking into the front windows filled with the void of, well, a glaring window. Then a house passed by and a man was sitting facing the window as if the pane was his television. But he looked odd, almost placid, void of any emotion or expression. I can’t determine if it was the sun playing coy with the double glazing - mind you in that neighbourhood it was probably single - or he was dead. Improbable, but I cannot get that waxy bald figure out of my head. If he was not gone what could he be so transfixed on? Was he just happy to have a front row seat to a remarkable sundown? Maybe he was just refining his knowledge of neighbourhood gossip, but he looked as if he had been in that palsy for days. Mind you this was all in a passing second. I must go back to see if he is still there, or at least check this week’s obituaries.
delayed new years.
Anita Sikma preview.
she made it!
van goghurt, get nothing done. get lost into the night and all of a sudden five have gone. nothing’s wrong… just want a spoonful of my own.
slip away. spoon away.