domingo, 5 de enero de 2014


And this was my blood of every day
And this was my sun
And this was my wind

I learned to think this was me
this object
this thing
(a blanket a suitcase a bed)
I could never possess
This something outside
I could never be

While the truth was elsewhere
and within
While the truth like a heartbeat
was constant
And attachment
like a fist
could barely contain
the dance of all time.

--Lorena Wolfman 2014

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