Once, long ago, when i was still young, when the memories were far more vivid then they are now, I often used to write about her. But I couldnt produce a line. I knew that if that first line would come, the rest would pour itself onto the page, but i could never make it happen. Everything was too sharp and clear, so that i could never tell where to start - the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless Now though, I realize that all i can place in the imperfect vessel of writing are imperfect memories and imperfect thoughts (enjoying Murakami on the beach)
Posted on: Sun, 20 Oct 2013 05:20:39 +0000
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