CAR WHEELS ON
THE GRAVEL
(part one)
Having to leave things alone, my body walks
away from my mind. The car wheels are
crunching granite, pebbles and rocks. A
man with a single crutch is lighting his own
cigarette. 'Isn't that supposed to be done for
others, like some lithsome blond in an old
noir film?' I ask. He grunts. The entire
episode made no sense anyway, so
what's the difference.
-
If people were able to really translate moments,
there would never have been wars. As it is,
I really can't prove there ever was one anyway.
Total subjectivity like that always cuts me short.
-
When I was young I got hit by a train, like
seven or eight years old - me, not the train.
Then, months later, awakening from a mediocre
coma from which I can still remember every thing
and every dotted i, I realized I was a thousand
years old but grandly young all over. Strange.
-
It took a while for people's words to form; from their
mouths came garbled sounds, filtering as if through a
sieve or something first, and only then falling back into
my field, as words. Or words I understood anyway.
No one said anything important or grand anyway : just
stuff like 'are you OK? How are you feeling? Where have
you been?' I'd better they had said 'where have you gone.'
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