And these were your streets. It's a curious rite of passage, isn't it? Visit the old places. First you wonder how you lived so uncomplainingly in such cramped circumstances. The streets are narrower, the buildings smaller than you ever remembered...and you want to ask me why I'm still here. I see your mother in the market and we talk about this. We want nothing to do with the business of mourning the old streets. We've made our choice. We complain but we don't mourn, we don't grieve. There are things here, people who show the highest human qualities, outside all notice, because who comes here to see?
The wine had legs. It was all legs. It had the legs of a sumo wrestler.
On top of Snowdon
...a woman marooned in introversion, only oddly loving.
Sarah's French Canadian Moose
part of the strolling band of tambourine girls and bomb makers, levitators and acid droppers and lost children.
Smee
I felt close to her and thought I knew her finally even as she shut her eyes to hide herself.
I was selfish about the past, selfish and protective. I didn't know how to bring Marian into those years. And I think silence is the condition you accept as the judgement on your crimes.
Lauren
I'm saying history is written on the commonest piece of paper in your pocket.
About Me
Lauren
Manchester, Greater Manchester, United Kingdom
Photographer. Mountainbiker. Climber (sometimes). Lesbian. Admirer of Existentialism. Literature Student. Writer.
1 comments:
Cool blog, i just randomly surfed in, but it sure was worth my time, will be back
Deep Regards from the other side of the Moon
Biby Cletus
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