The sky is opening here and things are beginning to die. The store mannequins, realizing that theirs is a sedentary lot, take leucadian leaps into vats of soup. It might have been delicious but their decapitated plastic corpses didn't harmonize, you see, neither with the oregano, nor the savory and thyme. They only floated aloof and greasy, a meal for the millers and the gobblers, oblivious, maybe, to all beauty.
And I wonder about the nonsensical connections between things. Why Auden means a bread with cranberries, and what Lincoln has to do with feeling flesh ripe, coarse, and unhomogenized under your fingers.
And then again.
Romance has stumbled its way out the door after a long and painful hangover --it was that party the summer before I reckon--- but not in the way that you'd think. Climbing over Lust, Hopeless Sensuality and the D-grade action flicks on the threshold, it takes one shuddering breath and then promptly goes back to bed.
Walking with my weekly onus of garlic, fish and courgettes I find the time to a form a passing crush. Yes, you with the worn shoes and well brushed greatcoat. What do you know about all this?
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