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Flashback 2 In the heart of November, the cold wind blowing as at the end of days, snow and my mother's face wait in the backseat to test out their philosophy of inevitability. Lightbulbs, like a row of ants, lead to the dining room. I am the bride at the end of the ceremony. And when I get ready to sleep, carefully removing twenty-one pins from my hair, as many as the years behind me, I barely know anything about life but I do know that when turning a corner even headlights are worthless. I try to hide my happiness, an orange dressed in white fuzz. I emerge cunningly from my genetic prophecy as one leaves a cave eroded by loneliness hidden inside the largest ram's belly. If I attempt to draw the curtain a little away with two well-manicured fingertips two shadows will pass by in harmony on the black asphalt the musician and the cello after the concert-- the man and the woman who defied predictability.
Flashback 2.
Lleshanaku, Luljeta
Flashback 2 In the heart of November, the cold wind blowing as at the end of days, snow and my mother's face wait in the backseat to test out their philosophy of inevitability. Lightbulbs, like a row of ants, lead to the dining room. I am the bride at the end of the ceremony. And when I get ready to sleep, carefully removing twenty-one pins from my hair, as many as the years behind me, I barely know anything about life but I do know that when turning a corner even headlights are worthless. I try to hide my happiness, an orange dressed in white fuzz. I emerge cunningly from my genetic prophecy as one leaves a cave eroded by loneliness hidden inside the largest ram's belly. If I attempt to draw the curtain a little away with two well-manicured fingertips two shadows will pass by in harmony on the black asphalt the musician and the cello after the concert-- the man and the woman who defied predictability.