He speaks of dialogues in the head
One too many
In mine
Parallel long monologues that don’t meet at infinity
They have been there
It seems
Before memories

They skip and they slide
Cross each other
At times unwary, at others a gentle shove

And as Marquez writes
One hundred years of solitude
Their beginnings are their endings
Are their beginnings
There is no still


Posted on July 25, 2003, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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