Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

July 10, 2008

storied

My cafe neighbours read their coffee grounds in guttural and fabulous voices. They toss fate from demitasse to demitasse. There are people who draw curiosity to them humbly as flame draws moths; they are garbed in archaic adjectivery as quilts in cloth. I could go on and on. And as I bring them to the page, it is as though they are mine. More and more. How long have I been this way, with the brimming loneliness of a dispossesed storyteller? Forever. I record people and the worlds they fill, lamplight-like; I record the shadows they cast into and against each others' light.


Posted by delire at July 10, 2008 11:11 AM
Comments

Pour ne pas être à l'intérieur du comprendre le plus souvent, je suis enclin à n'aimez pas les messages concernant ce sujet progressivement supplémentaires considérez que vous êtes à l'écrire à la mode outre vos moyens personnels, nous avons obtenu de dire, c'est vraiment, vraiment une belle publier de ceux à retenir.

Posted by: abercrombie france at September 5, 2012 07:22 PM
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