I like winter, because it's cold, cold like ice, cold like a stare that makes you feel clammy, cold like the left side of my mom's bed, cold like my toilet seat early in the morning, cold like me.
I used to have a dog when i was like eight.
He was called Thor. He got run over by a truck. I remember crying alot.
I go over to Mr. Walsh three times a week to do his gardening for him. He pays me ten dollars for it. He lets me have his home-made ham sandwiches and beer cause i told him my mom was cool with me drinking, and he actually believed it. He's kind of old and deathly afraid of garden lizards.
So you know nothing concrete about me do you?
Neither do i.
But the thing is i dont want to.
But you do.
6 comments:
the style.
you said it.
i can feel the chill in it.
it's menacing without even trying to be so.
and i do.
tell me more.
you talk- or write- or both- at least here- like jazz music.
catching my breath.
posts with titles like this, the anthropophagic genre isn't far off little one
:P
i read a book called "the book of story beginnings".
we have lots of those.
except that they're only meant to be beginnings. you know.
that's how they're whole.
because they're not.
like rabindranath said about short stories :"shesh hoyeo hoilo na shesh".
it's another one of those parallel universes that you can touch but not reach...sends a thrill down your spine everytime.
creating worlds. and then bas. so only the beginning is yours. the rest belongs to them.
I love this post. And the font is so apt. Feels like this piece of text was typed out in a swirl. And you are standing by the window having already forgotten the words, while people dig deeper in.
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