Once the cake is baked, you can’t separate the spices from the egg, he thought, finally deciding to save his head from banging into the pigeons. Loneliness is the end product, always, and the sooner you get used to it, the less lonely you will feel with yourself. A snake hissed and a rat ran, but the cellar remained empty and dry, alone in its anxious song.
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On Sundays, the coffee is served as sprinkled drops on shattered bits of red-stained glass. The drops are really quite small, and end up as dried up stains in no time. You’ll need to hurry to catch them; but be warned that the glass-bits are certain to cut your hands, if touched; slice your tongue, if licked; and cause substantial bleeding, if smelled. No, I’m afraid we are not quite equipped to serve coffee any other way. Would you like to try something to eat instead? Of course I’ll tell you how that is served, first,
What is a mind full of stories with
no hand to write them down? A soul flustered
and anguished without a forehead to frown;
A life full of music, with no voice to
sing it out; like seeds meant for harvest,
caught lurking in a drought;
Would we know a cake with no ovens
to bake it? A fiddler who wants to be,
with no muscles to make it?
The sun lights the earth, but between the
two it’s dark; without a target to throw at,
which aim can hit its mark?
Silence is music’s darkness, an ether for
its art; the deep wounds must be inflicted,
before the healing can start;
I float through this dark silence, its wetness
much too dry; don’t write me off for future,
just because at present I cry.