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lördag 8 februari 2014

Bright lights

Sometimes all nights mingle into one. Sometimes all the Lord Byron's of all the days that have passed can be found in and between the words of a single man. The lines of yesterday and today and tomorrow get blurry and I am left in a strange room, amongst people whose smiles reaches through and onwards. And a man with black, unruly hair and pale skin looks at me through brown eyes and I suddenly see us. So young, and radiant and confused and glowing and reading, reading, reading poems into the night. And I pull away into what has passed but he still follows, not trying to erase you, but in search of a space of his own. Sometimes you're in a room you never though you would find yourself in. You're punching in digits as he juggles glasses just to impress you, but your gaze makes him drop one and it shatters against the floor in a thousand pieces as you feel your smile reach your eyes. All of a sudden he is visible as the past fades into the background and the now becomes very still, very important. The wine glass finds your lips and as he watches you lean away from all that he isn't you know that you are all those seconds, all those minutes and hours that have passed, but that life is here, life is now and it's in your hands.


Keaton Henson – Small Hands

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