пятница, 13 апреля 2012 г.

The girl whom I loved the most left me. At ten I cut my finger in a flour mill.
 At six I broke my nose getting hit by a car.
 At fifteen I skinned my hip and -elbow falling off a moped,
 I had decided to defy the street, riding with no hands, looking backward.
 I broke my thumb skiing, after flying ten meters and landing on my head, 
I got up and saw, as in a cartoon, circles of birthday candles turning in the air and then I fainted.
 I have not made love to the wife of a friend. I do not love the sound of a family on the train. 
I am uneasy in rooms with small windows. 
Sometimes I realize that what I’m in the middle of saying is boring, so I just stop talking.
 Art that unfolds over time gives me less pleasure than art that stops it.
 Even if it is an odd sort of present, I thank my father and mother for having given me life.

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