warbling

when the inevitable train inevitably derails, may our - after smoke has cleared, before the fire begins gnawing - corpses be within arms reach.

one chooses when the music ends. you don't stop loving your significant other once you've stepped out of the house (one would hope).

it's better to have lost (as opposed to losing). similar to the idea of going through a beating for a round or two and not for a full 14 rounds.

you can't lose by telling the truth, even if you lose her due to it; losing a significant other doesn't count

an ideal conversation survives long after the initial interaction ends. that's to say, a great conversation does not require us to continue. furthermore, a poor (trivial) conversation has no origin or future.

my colleagues are getting famous.

Pygmalion had to have loved women. how else did he become aware of their flaws? Venus, in the end, did more harm to him than Galatea (in statue form) would have.

i want to be a machine. so much is expressed in such a wish. infinite.

Ma’am your appointment is next month A finger sliding across the sheet followed in the manner of one using their sleeve after sneezing. She only heard the sound of expelled air, her eyes elsewhere. There aren't walk-in appointments      came out like another sneeze. Her nod, smile just as courteous as if she had uttered, bless you.

Two children, in view of their Ipads, never to witness the poetic irony  of a pigeon walking around an airport.

I spot a bird prancing complacently right before it takes off, in search of...I don't know. Terrible!

A wave, however weary, still crashes.

The noises that came from her in the morning, as we both were waking, were the sounds of confusion and pleasure. Sighs and mutterings, as if the morning had chosen her as its instrument.

Nations, I've turned to ruins! Cities, I've captured beneath my shadow!! Mountains, I've transformed to mere steps!!! And you, I've made mine.

Drawers, painters, that sort, are more interesting than writers. Keep that in mind. The girl of the day - quite literally "of the day' since she, and only she, possessed the right amount of coquetry necessary to give of an aura of a veteran of the game (the wonderful little activity that is flirting)...in other words, someone who embodies the following: The closer I get, the less you exist. Talking on her phone, she began making her way toward me. She took turns glancing at me and then at my notebook. As she got close, she moved slower. As soon as I became aware of this tendency of hers, I at once changed my grip onto my pencil, holding it now closer to its eraser, and proceeded to glide my pencil across the page, as if I were shading cheekbones or pine trees in the distance. "Let me call you back," (in french) - like a bewildered puppy, she tilted her head sideways. Her hair hanging away from her cheeks was the pup's floppy ear. 

In a bathroom stall. A sticker that contained a man who resembled Neruda (a man sloppily drawn - as though from the childish hands of Lorca - with an anchor design over his heart. He wore a bandanna with AMOR written on it). I made him Neruda. A speech bubble had been drawn. I felt the dream coming to an end as I became anxious. Imagine If I had happened to have a marker on me in the dream! Even now, awake, I have absolutely no idea what I would write in it.

Hold a pencil long enough, pinching it tightly using your index finger and thumb. You will feel a pulse. Go ahead and try it. Try not to convince yourself that it is your blood that commands.