“There aren’t any more new songs and I have sung all the ones there are. I have sung them all. I have sung all the songs there are.”
People with no imagination feed it with sex—the clown of love. They don’t know the real kinds, the better kinds, where losses are cut and everybody benefits. It takes a certain intelligence to love like that—softly, without props. But the world is such a showpiece, maybe that’s why folks try to outdo it, put everything they feel onstage just to prove they can think up things too: handsome scary things like fights to the death, adultery, setting sheets afire. They fail, of course. The world outdoes them every time. While they are busy showing off, digging other people’s graves, hanging themselves on a cross, running wild in the streets, cherries are quietly turning from green to red, oysters are suffering pearls, and children are catching rain in their mouths expecting the drops to be cold but they’re not; they are warm and smell like pineapple before they get heavier and heavier, so heavy and fast they can’t be caught one at a time.
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways - I to die, and you to live. Which is better God only knows.
I found a sad little fairy
Beneath the shade of a paper tree.
I know a sad little fairy
Who was blown away by the wind one night.
Beneath the shade of a paper tree.
I know a sad little fairy
Who was blown away by the wind one night.
out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing/there is a field. I’ll meet you there.