[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T.S.Eliot
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
What's left
Sometime I have the impression that my memory is becoming like a city landline telephone pole. What remains of our past experiences? Not much. Just the scars. A handful of staples and pins, well stuck into the wood.
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