[stextbox id=”grey” caption=”Notes, 1983″]
Somewhere in the distance, so far and separate that it shouldn’t matter, the horn of a freight train sounds as it crosses slowly through the city. They go slower now to avoid limbs and things.
…and on nights like tonight, it’s nice to walk.
Still, there can’t be a way to replace the ideas from another with the ideas from inside. All the words and images are the same, just twisted around in circles. But since there’s no one here at all, I’ll have to make do with the materials at my disposal.
So it won’t do just to walk on a night like this.
You see, there’s nothing out there at all any more.
If I had ever been fool enough to trust in the human folly of love, then I was genuinely mistaken.
It isn’t tonight that I roll in teardrops, for it seems that that freedom too has escaped me. And it doesn’t help to close my eyes, for I still see the same things since there’s nothing here to see anyway.
My hand scratches silently along, and the air gets colder.
The days are shorter now.