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Wednesday, November 02, 2005

"A week in November - an afterthought"

The echo of the previous week did not die, it went into a mirror image and cracked there, in silent wonderment.
I checked this image in the evening, but could not find myself to reflect into it. I guess, I got lost again in the grind.

The smell of burned coffee: something good, overwaited upon, considered lost, but still promising senses an ersatz refreshment.
Smell that goes together all too well with the cracked concrete.

I tried to find myself reflected in your eyes, but got lost again... maybe for the better. Flowers seem to remember the freshness, the purity of streams of water, they nod, but keep silent. The egg cracked all too early today, spilling the day's guts all over a big city grill. (the other me still counting the papers in the "in" tray)

What constitutes creation, if creator is busy doubting his handiwork? The doubt is forever absent from pure creativity, it flows with the confidence of breathing, if it stops breathing - it dies. But my shrivelled whimperings would not go away - they crawl into the cracks, they are ... unafraid.

The greenery of a shrub is defiant enough to bring me to the senses. Coming back from the mirror cracks, I am remembering the week's echo.
Who is loving you?
Whom do you love back?

Spent the day, contemplating these two questions.
(the resting body does not possess mass, but the world moves around it)

"The collector of the echoes of the restless mind" - and I remember them all too well.


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