| Author: | Oscar A McCarthy | ISBN: | 9781386061441 |
| Publisher: | Oscar A McCarthy | Publication: | April 14, 2018 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Oscar A McCarthy |
| ISBN: | 9781386061441 |
| Publisher: | Oscar A McCarthy |
| Publication: | April 14, 2018 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
I THOUGHT I'D LOST YOU, I THOUGHT I'D LOST MYSELF....
Night.
Rain.
The low engine hum acted as the pedal point to the endless strikes of soles on pavement, the distant cry, all replaying in a percussive loop, all blanketed under the constant shower of white noise. The impression it created (for it is mere impressions which we feel and the details which one plagiarizes from the imaginations of others) reminded me of the lonely nights in a parlor with the radio across the table. The sounds of distant voices used to reach my ears but not quite reaching through the warm fog of her breath across my ear. Her embrace, the soft brush of an outline of her lips…Grace…
Enough past tense, I thought. Such an overused perspective, such a mechanic to paint only what one has seen (while guiltily acknowledging I won’t be quite so adamant). I reached and turned a knob, the new rhythms rising over the drones but much quite the same really.
As every song, not quite indifferent from another.
I THOUGHT I'D LOST YOU, I THOUGHT I'D LOST MYSELF....
Night.
Rain.
The low engine hum acted as the pedal point to the endless strikes of soles on pavement, the distant cry, all replaying in a percussive loop, all blanketed under the constant shower of white noise. The impression it created (for it is mere impressions which we feel and the details which one plagiarizes from the imaginations of others) reminded me of the lonely nights in a parlor with the radio across the table. The sounds of distant voices used to reach my ears but not quite reaching through the warm fog of her breath across my ear. Her embrace, the soft brush of an outline of her lips…Grace…
Enough past tense, I thought. Such an overused perspective, such a mechanic to paint only what one has seen (while guiltily acknowledging I won’t be quite so adamant). I reached and turned a knob, the new rhythms rising over the drones but much quite the same really.
As every song, not quite indifferent from another.
