The poetry of an old house often speaks without meaning to — like the body of an old man. Generously visited by the rumbling intonations of congestion and indigestion. Parts rattle, creak and wheeze as they please. Full of interior conversations; disjoint, cheerful, vaguely embarrassing and in polite company, largely ignored. But no different really from the wind rifling through the leaves of the trees at night. A nonchalant pickpocket whistling under his breath to the tune of lost time.
March 30, 2012
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