"Now that the fog has lifted, sunlight blasts through the open windows, and every object in the room seems more defined, more vivid, more saturated with color. Our host is pouring out the sorrows of his life to us, but I feel remarkably happy just to be where I am, sitting in my own body, looking at the things on the table breathing air in and out of my lung, relishing the simple fact that I am alive.What a pity that life ends, I tell myself, what a pity that we aren't allowed to go on living forever."
(Paul Auster, The Brooklyn Follies, p. 179)
"Beauty and love pass, I know... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses - "
(F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise, p. 171)
Red halo compared to green eyes,
Withered and dead, but still delicately held in your palm.
No white snow on green bamboo,
Simply waiting, casually noting the descent,
The colour of your innocence,
Unmentionable design: passive and hollow,
Let it cover the horizon.
The Serum remains a binary abstraction,
Filling tome after tome,
A sizeable mythology, haunting them to death.
You wait for the whistle to blow,
For the journey to begin.
Will you release your grasp; let the flower fall?
Will you surpass the Aerial,
Moving on, manifest the Indecorous?
The fuchsia tips compared to white body,
Pure as you are.
Release it and it falls, carousing to the end,
In gentle spirals: benightedness.
Not so uniform.
Eager for that breath of air.
Your first breath.
Others,
Gently pushed by invisible fingers.
You,
A gift, a curse, an understanding,
Where seconds are hours, certainty replaces complacency,
And everything is (can be)... Gold. "
"Beauty and love pass, I know... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses - "
(F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise, p. 171)
Red halo compared to green eyes,
Withered and dead, but still delicately held in your palm.
No white snow on green bamboo,
Simply waiting, casually noting the descent,
The colour of your innocence,
Unmentionable design: passive and hollow,
Let it cover the horizon.
The Serum remains a binary abstraction,
Filling tome after tome,
A sizeable mythology, haunting them to death.
You wait for the whistle to blow,
For the journey to begin.
Will you release your grasp; let the flower fall?
Will you surpass the Aerial,
Moving on, manifest the Indecorous?
The fuchsia tips compared to white body,
Pure as you are.
Release it and it falls, carousing to the end,
In gentle spirals: benightedness.
Not so uniform.
Eager for that breath of air.
Your first breath.
Others,
Gently pushed by invisible fingers.
You,
A gift, a curse, an understanding,
Where seconds are hours, certainty replaces complacency,
And everything is (can be)... Gold. "
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