Wednesday, May 23, 2012
and we should pity those who never remember anything even though they were there, for while free minds are soaring backwards, they are most likely soreing from their bed, but will not stir. so we sit at their feet, or holding their hand grasping at tubes pleading them to remember the tidbits of our face, does not my nose spark something in you? Do you not remember those long afternoons when petals fell, oh yes, petals fall in every direction, I do not have to explain. But no, you remember nothing. nothing at all. and so that's what you are, another amnesiac victim, and I shall say to you, "Oh, that's quite alright." But I will not say "I'm sorry," for it was not I who hit you over the head with a hammer, your self-inflicted memory-loss came early-on I'm sure, in childhood-roughly, like sand-paper to your very-soul, you murmured: "I will not remember this, and I will not remember that, and I will of course forever block this out, for it is of little significance," Oh yes, clearly, as it was nothing but love.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...