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Looking forward to everyone together again, from party to party, off the terraces, blond foamy beer …

It takes too long. We feel, we say, we find. Every day is Groundhog day, every thought, every conversation more of the same. More shit and shit about the shit and shit about the shit about the shit. Virus, viri, viro, virum, viro. Nobody knows, everyone calls, even the idiots have a voice. Ignore them, leave them, leave me. Rest does not always mean peace, no, the girl who was close to Biden was right, but let us leave each other alone. Keep looking, keep looking, keep seeing what is. Come on, there is, is, is, is still so much allowed, isn’t it?

Come on, what is? The empty city. Well, yes. Bird chirping, too. The early morning. A detour. The detour app. The word detour. Coffee. Very tasty. Cup of coffee. Another. And another one. It takes too long. Come on, what else? Close eyes to the sun. Snowdrops. In the land of the last things by Paul Auster from the postman. The lamp above the sofa. In the corner of that couch, under that lamp, that book. Ginger tea. Blissful purr, Woody pussy on my head. Alright then. That too. Still, too long.

The map and the area from Houellebecq off the shelf. The last sentence: “The triumph of the vegetation is complete.” Who to tell about that sentence, about that book. My phone in hand, who? Takes. Long. New episodes Dix pour cent – three today, three for tomorrow, yes, keep those three, as if they were candy. Marrow pipes. Great, from the bakery. Hugging children. Drinks with neighbors. Cooking for friend Wim. Shower before going to sleep. Making out. To write. Disappear in time. Changing work room. Painting walls. Brewing herbal oil. Boil out weck bottles and fill with that home-brewed herbal oil. Rub my hubby with herbal oil. Echoing Latin rows. Crackling from all the birdsong. Ginger tea poisoning. Dix pour pennies on. Auster explains. Ommetjes my ass. Empty. Too long.

Salty butter. Toast. Laughs with my daughter. Dancing in the kitchen. A place to love. Show. Whining – what too long? Imagine it is summer. Open windows, flip flops, warm sand between my toes. Hanging out of a train window, seeing Italy. Wash on lines, ocher land. Rejoice. That art mastered. Look forward to everyone together again, from party to party, off the terraces, blond foamy beer. What we were complaining about, the triumph of the vegetation was not yet complete when we were back! Weapon rattle, victory, virus, viri, viro, virum, viro beaten! So dreaming of things to come, of that we are back and that we may again. From the unexpected, the unknown, breathe.

Nice, 1992.Image Eddy Posthuma de Boer

Looking forward to everyone together again, from party to party, off the terraces, blond foamy beer …
Source link Looking forward to everyone together again, from party to party, off the terraces, blond foamy beer …

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