another mystery to unfold. who is the owner of the shoes and suitcase? is he leaving this room or coming in? is it his home or the home of his lover? or his mother? or his sister? excellent. cool. fixe!!
Someone who writes talks about things all people know but that they still don't know they know. Thus, writers and readers, by using fantasy, realise how many things people have in common. Great literature don't talks about our judgement capacity, but about our ability to put ourselves in someone's shoes.
he closed his day by shutting a book. a novel by albert camus. it felt appropriate. it was autumn and leaves hung in mock surrender. his hotel room grew chill and the light faded. washed from brittle autumn golds to a film noir setting. he placed the book on the bedside table and started to pack his minimal drab clothing. tawdry underwear now crumpled. socks that had grown holes. threadbare wollens and partched linen shirts no longer white. he though of her and then and the one chance now blown away like the falling leaves. amelia. gone. him too. another life. finished he placed his shoes onto the top of his suitcase. outside a fine drizzle fell like the notes of orpheous. amelia. just another false hope.
7 comments:
another mystery to unfold. who is the owner of the shoes and suitcase? is he leaving this room or coming in? is it his home or the home of his lover?
or his mother?
or his sister?
excellent.
cool.
fixe!!
thanks c.j.
a famous writer...
it was born in this bed...
made the return to the world... wrote books...
it came back (at home) and died.
Perfect Circle Life.
Someone who writes talks about things all people know but that they still don't know they know. Thus, writers and readers, by using fantasy, realise how many things people have in common. Great literature don't talks about our judgement capacity, but about our ability to put ourselves in someone's shoes.
OH! I really LOVE this one!
:-)))
A thousand stories could be told from this photograph.
thanks jin ;)
he closed his day by shutting a book. a novel by albert camus. it felt appropriate. it was autumn and leaves hung in mock surrender. his hotel room grew chill and the light faded. washed from brittle autumn golds to a film noir setting.
he placed the book on the bedside table and started to pack his minimal drab clothing.
tawdry underwear now crumpled.
socks that had grown holes.
threadbare wollens and partched linen shirts no longer white.
he though of her and then and the one chance now blown away like the falling leaves.
amelia.
gone.
him too.
another life.
finished he placed his shoes onto the top of his suitcase.
outside a fine drizzle fell like the notes of orpheous.
amelia.
just another false hope.
excellent
neo realism.
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