Margins at the End of Beginning
Tenterlé walks the corridor again, whispering Hi! to no one in particular, a bee song rattling from the glass tube of Ricoh 2 as if anguish within could be developed on silver paper.
Lucky boy, they said, when he caught the garmonbozia falling from the cupboard, but shorn of its sweetness it tasted of winter.
caco stains, mazzara return. Theresa coughs. Docteur Faust knocks.
Matines ring at six but no one listens, not even the worshipful company of sleepers. Easy for you, says one voice, though the healing has yet to begin.
And then, as always, the sentence halts: the healing, the anguish, the playful, the wholly unrelated.
Abadir & Nahash - Tenterlé تنترليه
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