All the sundays in the world
May 6, 2008
The emptiness after the guests’ leaving. The silence when the music stops. Something you’ve looked forward to, but that upon its arrival leaves a vacuum in your stomach. The friends. The ones you can always call, but you really can’t, can you?
She is the beauty of my life, the wings of my soul. Yet she makes me want to crush something, violently, against the pavement. She writes these letters without words.
This morning I woke up earlier.
