ᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠ, ᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠ Ёᶠᶤᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠ'ᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠᶠˁᶠ ᶠᶠᶠʀ'ᶠᶠᶠʀʀʀ'ᶠʀʀʀʀ'ʀ�
ᕗ្៖្៓ៗ
ᕗ្្ែ ᕗ្្្
ᕤ្្្ៃ
ᕤ្្្
ᕢ្្្
ᕠ្្្
ლლლლლლლლლლლლლლლლ ლლლლ
ლლლლლლლლლლლლლ
ლლლლლლლლლლლლლლ სლლლლლლლლლლლლლლლლ
ឆ្្្ ក្៉៕៉ ឧ៎៤៝។៌
I can still feel his hands, his unwritten letters.
Lying awake the floor creaked, the lit house was suddenly darkened and I'd get warm before he even slipped into bed.
It was over, the moment I hardly sleep anymore, it doesn't interest me anymore.
I hate to think, what is the sky inside going to look like tomorrow morning?
Those streaks of light above the window curtains remind me I have to get up.
I have to enjoy those little citizens starting like noises in airports of people coming back from their alternate lives.
I can still feel his hands, his unwritten letters, his unwritten letters.
I can still feel his hands, his unwritten letters, his unwritten letters.
I can still feel his hands, his unwritten letters.
I can still feel his hands, his unwritten letters.
A train ride from Union Station to King Street Station takes 34 hours and 27 minutes, not considering the recent delays for construction of the high speed rail.
I can still feel his hands, his unwritten letters, his unwritten letters.
It takes me 12 minutes to get drunk.
Everything lived before seems insignificant.
Yet there was Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. I met her with James, with Helena. Had that not been love with a woman?
It was not like love with a man. It was completely disinterested and other qualities that could only exist between women.
She was very absurd. The absurdity of it all. Her scent, her skin, her hair, her lips. Everything.
It was protective on her side. Sitting on the floor with her arms around her knees and holding a cigarette, she told me she liked the idea that her husband's name was Carlos and not Bob.
Still, I hate passionate men. They often do opposite things and justify both avarice, virtue, vanity, laziness, fear, loneliness.
Passionate men weaving wine bottles and my virginity. My virginity taken from me by an old guy in a cheap room holding photographs of his kids.
He made me an offer. But important things are worth nothing to anyone.
For all thing life is, that a woman has to put on makeup to look decent. It's a lie, like anything else. It's impossible to convey any sort of truth.
It is impossible. We live as we dream alone. I cover my eyes with blue. My lips with red.
Now I look like the sunset of Chicago.
Of course Lucy Hartley ever wore makeup. But then again she was a remarkable woman.
Everything she said had candor, it had conviction. Even in her whispers there was a sense of revolt.
She made me think deeply of things she never even mentioned. Like the way you forget about the stars when you live in the city.
Of course it makes sense. There's nothing more beautiful than city lights.
One night on the deck of her boat she promised me she could make marbles float on water.
It was impossible I told her but she did it. One by one she rolled them off and one by one they floated there on the current.
Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. And for some reason it made me think of those stars.
Yet from here they don't interest me at all. The stars are only pretty when reflected on a black creek.
I wonder what direction Hong Kong is in. I wonder where Lucy is.
I caused her so much distress. So much distress when I decided to stay with him.
It was impossible I told her but she did it.
It was impossible I told her but she did it.
I wonder where Lucy is.
