Friday, February 22, 2013

Left With An Empty Container

Socrates didn't start off Socrates. The first cause remains mysterious even now. We can sit together by the side of the road not talking for a thousand years.

A horse and a dog are roughly the same? We stand at the river's edge and laugh with Heraclitus. Flakes of snow, slow-spiraling stars.

This morning's moon was so lovely I almost cried and even changed the walk so that I could see it steadily through the trees so soft and yellow and - forgive me - so loving. The dog is silent too. A sort of blue pervades the dusk, forever a recollection.

If you want conflict you've got it. Chocolate? I floated like an indifferent balloon, dreaming of Paris, forever recalcitrant.

Forever a mendicant? Hesitation is his style as is calling it a style. I poured myself out and was left with an empty container which scared . . . who?

She woke to cats, made tea and we talked about speech defects. A thousand miles away, awaiting a storm. Your rose, my voluminous correspondence.

I mean that he asked a question and made space for the other to answer. You have to see that what you thought was love is not and then it starts.

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