in my mind's eye i see epics unfolding, but i dont chase 'em, and they float away much like how those beautiful, vividly dyed squares of cloths - those that Arabic merchants always sell in their festive marketplaces - would. i dont really mind, it's just a pity sometimes.
and then i read books that go like this:
"certain things last," i say to myself. "One might make things a little clearer. One might even imagine a man, say a Negro, going along a city street and humming a song. It catches the ear of another man who repeats it on the next day. A thin strand of song, like a tiny stream far up in some hill, begins to flow down into the wide plains. It waters the fields. It freshens the air above a hot stuffy city."
brilliant stuff isn't it? and i dont even try to find them. i got this quote from a book i picked on a whim in the library, an action so lacking of consciousness that when i was asked "wow what book is that?" i am forced to reply, "i have no clue either. the title was, uh, i dont know, actually"
and life is so dreamy mm.