Poorly glued figures, repeated to exhaustion. Silhouettes that replace each other without a trace. A poetic reflection on the fading of feelings and the routine of sadness in urban solitude.
Poorly glued figures, repeated to exhaustion. Silhouettes that replace each other without a trace.
I lose interest when the feeling fades and the tears flow.
People adjust their bodies to new comforts, stimulate themselves with minimal pleasures, touch themselves, resist the inevitable emptiness of the soul.
Sadness becomes routine, daily, untamable loneliness. They feel heat. They feel pleasure.
And as I walk the blocks, the wind hits the back of my neck and makes me think that nothing happened. Everything was brief, imaginary, like a warm sun in an early spring.
I don’t know how much of this was true, how much was invention. But her look— her simple look— meant more to me than to anyone else, ever.
Behind the glass, faint and thoughtful, perhaps rigid, perhaps joyful. The curve of her red lips intertwines with the softness of her cheekbones, and I imagine.
I only imagine, in this barren wagon.
We have two glances left. Let’s cross them. And be together. Very slowly, let’s be together…