Friday, December 20, 2013

4853. CAR WHEELS ON THE GRAVEL

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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