When our experience glistens with collective sadness and long afternoons become a matter of life in death for a thousand Dorian Grays, it could be safely assumed that a faction of eternity, indeed, is indebted to Pablo Neruda.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Like a casual sketch or a swift swig of nothingness, here I waste my words, apparently without any rhyme or reason. My words, they go into the crevice of oblivion without me and what pain it is to accept the feeling of being left out! The stars look too bright and too distant from where I stand and afar a leaden echo reflects the little spot of bother that is getting red-hot inside my hidden treasure box. It's been a ride. Not exactly a joyous one—a ride nonetheless.