Friday, January 29, 2016
I drift on the outskirts of life, both sinking and floating, occurrence becomes its perfect ruin of desertion.
Alone and silent, we are here together. Others still sleep in the boat, and the cormorant is by herself. There must not be very many fish in this stretch of the river.
I know that in September, Autumn plays around the corner. In this moment of hunger, my perception through the logic of emotions is most keen.
Man. Boat. Song. Lintel. Shadow.
But I am looking for you—through you—on this river. You have taught me that this wandering will never cease. Respites come in purple mornings and bamboo afternoons.
The cormorant dives under and I open the blank book.