Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Now is the time for smoking with cigarettes and writing with words - listening to the air with ears and looking at light with eyes.

Now consists of the closing hours of another day, in which the brain still wrings the moments from minutes - until the bodily finally forces the world to sleep.

Now, when things do as they do and come to an end. Drinks runs dry as it does, and columns of silvery smoke make a mouth burn when it breathes.

Now is the time for poetry in paragraphs - possibly not quite fit for songs and singing, but certainly suitable - for piles of pages turned, and easily burned.

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