THEY WERE NIGHTMARES
sometimes i get hung up on purity, imagining that my thoughts are made of the same stuffs as music. & shouldn’t my cracked & dry winter hands move only in agreement w/the stirrings of my soul? i know pain is no more than an unwelcome sound in my ears.
i think the past was lighter. literally. i picture myself as a merchant in turn-of-the-century spain. & it’s such a relief to have the last hundred years off my shoulders. even then, i might have to drag around the spanish inquisition. we must inherit that weight, like it’s passed down moment from moment. i just want to let it all go as if it were the first day.
i believe in the world only as much as last night’s dreams.
