Desolate in solitary pensiveness. You sit absorbedly detached
by the pane refracting the feeble twilight recollected in pieces.
Immersed in thoughts diffuse. A little bit indulgent. And you
wonder how things drift away softly and how the passionate soul
has grown weary. Still with longing. Dejected. Years later you
start to realize. In the bleak city. Vapory streets. The wanderer
strolls aimlessly with remembrance blurred. The fog is over your
garment, the spleen your mind. Thin but permeant. The river flows
into the ocean with endless sorrow. And they pass by. Without
bidding farewell. Vanishing in the unreal city.
August 25, 2001
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Si vales, valeo.
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