Not hers
When he moved to her country, the country was not big enough for her to stay, so she packed her suitcase, bought a ticket to nowhere and went away. Some people thought she was on the run, which was not the case; they would understand, if only they knew.
The questions were not hers to answer. The guilt was not hers to deal with. She left the glasses fallen into thousand pieces, they were not hers to glue together. She abandoned the empty canvases dusting under the staircase. She put on one of her thousand white dresses, switched on her iPod playing tunes of her self composed silence and went away. Her smile came along. Her happiness she carried with her.
define: blood donation
A blood donation is when a healthy person voluntarily has blood drawn. The blood is used for transfusions or made into medications by a process called fractionation.
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Life got in their way
The night was not young. He uttered, whispered almost in commandment, ‘Will you stay?’, asking her a question she would not and could not say no to. She nodded in their silent bubble in the middle of the noisy, intoxicated crowd. That was the moment they had been waiting for. The night was not young. She was too young in his almost frightened, almost guilty eyes.
…then life got in their way.
by bukowski
‘This is presented as a work of fiction and dedicated to nobody.’
charles bukowski
by Proust
The novelist’s happy discovery was to think of substitutes for those opaque sections, impenetrable to the human soul, their equivalent in immaterial sections, things, that is, which one’s soul can assimilate. After which is matters not that the actions, the feelings of this new order of creation to appear to us in the guise of truth, since we have made them our own, since it is in ourselves that they are happening, that they are holding a thrall, as we feverishly turn over the pages of the book, our quickened breath and staring eyes. And once the novelist has brought us to this state, in which, as in all purely mental states, every emotion is multiplied ten-fold, into which his book comes to disturb us as might a dream, but a dream more lucid and more abiding than those which come to us in sleep, why then, for the space of an hour he sets free within us all the joys and sorrows in the world, a few of which only we should have spend years of or actual life in getting to know, and the most intense of which would never be revealed to us because the slow course of their development prevents us from perceiving them. It is the same in life, the heart changes, and it is our worst sorrow; but we know it only through reading, through our imagination: in reality its alteration, like that of certain natural phenomena, is so gradual that, even if we are able to distinguish, successively, each of its different states, we are still spared the actual sensation of change.
Marcel Proust
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