And then you leave the memories behind.
When you look at the pictures
It seems like it was always fun.
But you know that
in that photo everyone was actually broken deep down inside.
Crying and yelling at the same time.
They were some kinda wounded birds…
When you remember that,
you became some kinda phoenix.
And life goes on like this.
like an incomplete poem.
Forty-two. His age had astounded him for years, and each time that he had sat so astounded, trying to figure out what had become of the young, slim man in his twenties, a whole additional year slipped by and had to be recorded, a continually growing sum which he could not reconcile with his self-image. He still saw himself, in his mind’s eye, as youthful, and when he caught sight of himself in photographs he usually collapsed… Somebody took my actual physical presence away and substituted this, he had thought from time to time.