PATTIE SMITH, ‘M TRAIN’
I’m sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.
No music no menu. Just silence black coffee olive oil fresh mint brown bread.
- The cafe I’ll never realized, the cafe I’ll never know.
- For in truth we don’t know each other very well, complicity solely through our daily coffee routine.
That without a doubt we sometimes eclipse our own dreams with reality.
Why can’t things be just as they are?
I just wanted to get lost, become one with somewhere else, slip a wreath on a steeple top solely because I wished it.
He sees, not with eyes, yet he sees. He recognizes voices within silence, history within negative space.
He bakes bread but dreams of music.
But then again, why do we dream about anything?
No one wins anything; winning is an illusion, that’s for sure. the sun was going down, where did the day go?
Such thing that disappear in time that we find ourselves longing to see again. We search for them in close-up, as we search for our hands in a dreams.
Perhaps there’s no past or future, only the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory.
Not all dreams need to be recognized.
We accomplish things that no one would ever know.
Someone I could find, if need be, in that same scape on the edge of sleep.
Where are all the ants? And the bees and the little white butterflies we used to see everywhere? And what about the jellyfish and the shooting stars?
We shook hands knowing most likely we would never meet again.
How easy it is, I mused, to fall in love with an animal.
The transformation of the heart is a wondrous thing, n matter how you land there.
You never can pay too much about for peace of mind.
Words tumble in helpless disorder. The dead speaks. We have forgotten how to listen.
All I needed for the mind was to led to new stations. All I needed for the heart was to visit a place with greater storms.
Midflight I began to sweep. Just come back, i was thinking. You’ve been gone long enough. Just come back. I will stop traveling; I will wash your clothes. Mercifully, I fell asleep, and when I awoke snow was failing over Tokyo.
- What was nothing?
- It was what you can see of your eyes without a mirror, was the answer.
It’s very nice, but lacking the shimmering quality of the lost ones. Nothing can be truly replicated. Not a love, not a jewel, not a single line.
- There’s nothing lonelier than the land, he said.
- Why lonely?
- Because it’s so damn free.
We want things we cannot have. We seek to reclaim certain moments, sound, sensation.
Partners depend on one another’s eyes. The one says, tell me what you see.
— tell me what you see.
But since he is telling himself he doesn’t have to be perfectly clear, because something inside holds any given missing part — the unclear or partially articulated.
It’s the loneliest thing in the world, waiting to be found.
She did it for love. There is only one directive: that the lost are found.
Some things are not lost but sacrificed.
Why is it that we lose the things that we love, and things cavalier cling to us and will be the measure of our worth after we’re gone?
If one could perceive an entire universe, the possibility of its existence seemed quite tangible.
We seek to stay present, even as the ghost attempt to draw us away.
I believe in movement. I believe in that lighthearted balloon the world. I believe in midnight and the hour of noon. But what else do i believe in? Sometimes everything. Sometimes nothing.
How does one make one’s work a living thing? How can a writer place a living thing in the hand of the reader? Lost for words I travel backwards. Perhaps it’s not where we are going but just that we go.