Everything is full of rust and inflammation, and the rails sing mournfully as we go past trees whose leaves are black as rotting leather. It’s cold in the compartment, and outside it is raining, it’s always raining these mornings, and everyone’s eyes look like they have been crying. No one speaks, only the rattle of newspapers. And yet you are so beautiful, as we drive through the tunnel and the dim light wraps itself around your hair, your face like an African ornament. Once, everything was like you are.
7 notes
May, 2010
