Staring at the piles of fallen, forlorn, ash-stricken leaves, beyond the pale walls of my room, it becomes difficult not to turn to the rigmarole of melancholic thoughts of our past living(s). These thoughts cautiously slither and slide their way, time-travelling into my present reflections: To think that without this memory I have nothing, but because of this memory I am nothing.
But, what if by a slight, thin chance this memory was fabricated—my imagination unscrupulously playing cruel tricks to pass the time?
Yet, whether this memory belongs to something real beyond my imaginary landscape, it becomes real nonetheless. It has penetrated its way into my very being: spreading over my mind and body; stretching over mornings and nights; crawling into my veins; stamping my soul with a lucid, pristine, immortal memory.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
We worked into the night: the fans, buzzards, drums, notes, and half torn stories were all piling up in one great frying pan. The smoke began to rise between the pages and the notes, and we saw our thoughts before our eyes—colourful and glowing with ghostly excitement, yet discordant. All we could hear now was a desultory vibration, bouncing from one ear to the next. Our names, simmering in the distance, became unintelligible, and in those passing seconds we knew one another by our glances.