Sunday, October 16, 2011

I won't tell a soul

I won't tell a soul

Van Gogh's Three Hands, Two Holding Forks (1884)


… if you just quit, or roll over in angst, and decide that it’s time to raise your hand against in a gesture of crime, or if you have things to opt out being afraid that you need first to pour your heart out to that stranger, a less or more confident voice, strolling insanely in the night – but after all, like you and me and anyone else, a fire, like you and that guy, a person(a)-like extant in this or that weird, twisted life
… that for you things appear to be as clumsy or as heavy as the way you had no more intention to trust they could be retrievable, at all the first and last sights
… every single time you came over to my empty place, asked for both my look and my good-natured listening only to mutter that you feel yourself less hurt or your soul more flowing, protected from crudeness or threatened by a world made of vain, so that you might
… whether you, my partner, shoulder and are no more up to bear up against the whole desperation out of your way, and your own way through the cash-like crowd

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