January 15th, 2011

(no subject)

The darkest point of winter has gone; the knife's edge lies behind us. Still it is cold, so cold that one's phantom flesh seems to shape itself still and gelid as a sheet of ice about one's thoughts. Frost clouds the window panes. I patient myself, waiting for the sun. But for now there is this mist, this haze; I would that I could see clearly.

(no subject)

How nostalgic one gets for summer. White wine breathing in glasses, and green leaves on the chestnut trees.

Speaking of my own inestimable contributions to Liberty, Fraternity, and, you know, other things: I came across a straw-bottomed chair in a café recently. The urge struck me-- a speech was starting, at the very tips of my fingers. I could feel it forming, gloriously. The trouble isn't, of course, at the tips of my fingers...