Status Updates From By Grand Central Station I ...

I am dying for love. This is the language of love.

The grass is already green in the country. My imagination clutches that fact like a hot-water bottle, and makes itself dopey with it, and uses it like a drug to ease my heart and quiet all my sources of unrest. My future is already planted there, and my hope getting ready to sprout with the cherry blossom.

For who plans suicide sitting in the sun?

But sometimes, alone, it caught my two eyes like butterflies on pins, and showed me a face about to be submerged by tears, hounded back to the sterility of its own counsel, when the day of wrath, now avalanching into the present, should arrive.
The sight of that mad face in the half-lit room drove me to prayers and loud noise. Your own shadow meeting you announces the end.

I will comfort you. I can carry love like Saint Christopher. It is heavy, but I can carry it. It's the stones of suspicion I stumble on. Did I say suspicion? No.
No. No. I's nothing. I love you. A slight feeling of nausea, that's all.
After a while I got out into the open air, and his face was the moon hanging in the snowy branches.

“I know these days are offering me only murder for my future. It is not just the creeping fingers of the cold that dissuade me from action, and allow me to accept the hypocritical hope that there may be some solution.”

It kinda reminds me of that Rilke quote on accepting the unresolved longing in your heart

“But I love her and her silence is propaganda for sainthood.”

The faces, the faded houses, the autumn air, everything is omens of promise to the prodigal. But leaning against the train window, drunk with the hope which anything so unbegun always instils, I remember my past returnings: keep that vision, I pray, pressing my forehead against the panes:

here is no underlining of an accidental picturesqueness, but a waiting, unself-conscious as the unborn's,