You just wanna be a woman playing with a bow and arrow; you have been a temptress. In fields I smell desiccated flowers, poppies crumble under the laden gaze of youth remembered. Under trill and drummed beat query comes: “Did you really want?” Yes, I did and I do. How could I surrender? How can I ever?
There is just the remains, the remains of something I cannot hope to recall with ever less than clarion acuity. This scene languishes under the shade of trees drooping deeply into black waters near the shore, the pebbles jostle slightly under lapping pushed by a breeze from offshore, out of sight, beyond my reckoning as I am too cooled and brought to sway where I stand looking out beyond hope, over years to moments I wish to hang all the great moments that would make today instead That Day, Another Day, a day unlike This Day.
Or in other words, this is what happens when I listen to Portishead while reading “The Pale King” by DFW on my way to work.