Pablo Neruda rocks my verigated woollen bed socks.
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
-- Pablo Neruda, "Clenched Soul"
"Morning. Strawberry sky dusted with white winter powder sugar sun. And nobody to munch on it with"
- Francesca Lia Block (Missing Angel Juan)
I've grown weary of isolation, and thus emailed a few people in my classes at uni to try to get some kind of study group started. All the reading is driving me bonkers this semester, and I've resorted to cooking. Roasted vegetable fritatta is indeed a success. I have no idea what is with this new domesticated version of myself, but its practical, and it will come in handy.
I've never been practical before.