February 2012
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Dezembrum
I.
Tonight there are only the winter stars.
The sky is no longer a junk shop,
Full of javelins and old fire-balls,
Triangles and the names of girls.
II.
Over and over again you have said,
This great world, it divides itself in two,
One part is man, the other god:
Imagined man, the monkish mask, the face.
III.
Tonight the stars are like a crowd of faces
Moving round the sky and singing
...
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“Every sentence has a truth waiting at the end of it and the writer learns to...”
– Bill Gray, the reclusive novelist in Don DeLillo’s novel Mao II. (via mills)
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