Posted: Apr 30, 2008, 6:52 PM CST
There would yet be some things to say. Here.
And so much to shut up sometimes elsewhere.
I could yet say everything that bubbles in me, in this pot of the devil where all mixes itself.
I could nearly say these high, my fears, his ones, these pinches of hopes that don't admit to being, these joys, these incomprehensions, these hesitations, my silly impatience, these magic instants, these steps back, my doubts, his sentences sometimes that creak from afar in the stomach, these characteristic tingles, these smiles, from afar, my disarray sometimes, his words as flowers, my questionings, his laughters, this non-existence, so many things, of sensations...
I could say all that. I should say all that. Instead of that, I put the lid on the pot.
And all gets to boil even stronger.
Then I align some songs on CD to say nothing about everything that I want to say.
Or to say it while shutting up...
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