(no subject)
if i were to stop and make a shape in the sand, i would draw the sun as seen from inside, or sketch out in stick figures an accidental meeting of strangers. and then i would kick my creation to pieces with my sneakers, as if having a tantrum were a kind of fortune telling. such sublime moments come very rarely and they are usually wasted in exactly this reckless way. and afterwards, the world carries on as if they had never happened and whole histories are eaten away by our aphasic appetites. so if you have ever wondered what it means to live the lives that we do, you must remember that our days are a series of traces, points of light amid stretches of darkness, echoes in an empty excavation. and all this contemplation is not an attempt at philosophy but just the workings of a weary head jostled by the shaking of a train on the long ride home.