He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Saturday 12 January 2013
Listening to Johannes Brahms - Hungarian Dance 5, sitting on the window sill, looking up the starry night, lighting up a cigarette, was the celebration in my 19th birthday. Great.
Edward Gibbons - I was never less alone than while by myself.
