i know a place where people grow achromatic by the hour. they watch the clock spin its tiny, unforgivable hands, and drink to their downfall. and every night, just before reaching cold, starchy beds, they feel the pigment leave their eyes, sucked dry behind the sooty pupils. there are no frescos. there is no such thing as sapphire crystal and orange marmalade. there is no ingenuity. confections are sharp or sour or both and no one drinks up the world through straws. i know a place where no one enjoys the horizon in late afternoon, and soon the space above them is obsidian without much notice. stars never glow warm like small beacons in the night. they never lead anyone home. brilliance lives its short life in the wet shadows, away from all things living. no ones hair grows strong and soft like white honey. no one spreads vanilla across their pillows to dream sweet and long through the dark tide hours. and just before reaching starchy beds, just before the pigment is gone, there is a very small part of them that wonders why...
take heart, i know a place where everything opposite of the above occurs.
posted by drew carlascio
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
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