Chicken, fickle chicken. You run about spouting some fantasy, some wish-dream-hope. Run away and down corridors of foreign cobblestone streets, crooked buildings looming, looking, hoping you might trip and fall. And if you do you duck and roll, under a desk abandoned on the sidewalk, transformed to snow and ice, a whirlwind of cold. And suddenly you are still a centerpiece in a deserted square, watching newspapers blow around under the thickest overcast sky. Like it happened after all. Like we really did end up leaving, faster than we came, in one violent moment.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment