slowsailor

🎞️: Bringing out the dead

🎥: Martin Scorsese

I know flies in milk. 

Specks against white. 

I know, I know it. 

I know a man by his clothes. 

Even I know that much. 

I know fair weather from foul. 

I know that. 

I know the apple by the tree. 

That I know. 

I know who labor and who loafs. 

I know all. 

All save myself. 

I know all things. 

I know pink cheeks from wan. 

I know death who devours all. 

I know everything. 

Everything but myself.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

It seems life is constructed in a way that no one can fulfill it alone

Just as it’s not enough for flower to have pistils and stamens

An insect or breeze must introduce a pistil to a stamen

Life contains its own absence, which only an other can fulfill

It seems the world is the summation of others

And yet, we neither know nor are told that we will fulfill each other

We lead our scattered lives, perfectly unaware of each other

Or at times, allowed to find the others’s presence disagreeable

Why is it, that the world is constructed so loosely?

A horse fly, bathed in light, flies in close to a blooming flower

I, too, might have been someone’s horse fly

Perhaps you, too, had once been my breeze.