November 25, 2006


(loan nguyen)

(how can i tell you how much sorrow is in this lake?

once you've lost and lost and lost and lost, it's absurd how little you know but to expect to leave again.

how heavy becomes what's invisible: the air, the time you fall asleep, the anxiety when you awake to see your ceiling, the temperature of your tea, the temperature of your bathwater, the time you take your medicine, the hours waiting for your blood to change, the moment your body will be weary again, cold folded hands, dry lips, the resistance of your pillow, and the sound of someone quietly shutting the door. how little you can control, what was that space you once occupied you've now forgotten ... you haven't energy to think else and you haven't words to tell anyone anyway, because, beside your books, you are alone.)

(where did you go and where have you been?)

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