Lunatic Fringe

Write down the truest thing you know. I see my ghost in the window. Namely my reflection, and to be wholly honest it’s only my eyes I recognize anymore, little else, just the signs of excess, and what became of a situation that wants for help. When I look beyond myself- quite literally- the city imposes its own thoughts. The lights are blinking now over the empire state as I search the emasculated sky space to the south. What this vantage would’ve gleaned some years ago? I picture myself on that last night, perhaps just like this one, for me at least. Not so for many others, not so. To remember it now, certain ideas return quickly, though I don’t at all feel connected to whom I was in that life-time. It strikes me how separate I feel; heartache is not a singular expression, and I was never a stranger to wrongs real or imagined, still such things were tactful then, transgressions of the heart seemed much more furtive when I was young. Perhaps it was because I was always right once upon

He traced her twice, still unable to sleep, clumsy fingers the only movement betraying the still of the room to the scant light which came in at the window. They spoke 'I love you' to that small part of a woman's back that men wait a life-time to be intimate with, he took in the bewildering fragrance of her hair, and waited. Silience was all that resonated- all that would still be his come morning- save the soft whisper of breathing, and the fast-moving night some stories below. Sleeping beauty could not be troubled with his world, he was not tomorrow.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080111/ap_on_re_mi_ea/iraq_first_snow_in_memory I get a strange feeling after reading this article. Makes one contemplate all different ideas of religion, and the human experience. Is there hope for any of us? the Joyce allusion certainly advances that idea.