Life suspended to nearly nothing. To some hypothetical and changing
hopes. The emptiness to the hollow of the stomach. In research of
comforting words for lack of gestures, of caresses, of kisses. The
suspended life. Lost in a thick mist. The mist of the doubts and
uncertainties. Sometimes, to the will of wind that blows, of the
breakthroughs in the opaque cocoon make appear a gleam, far away like a
beacon. A gleam like a comforting and soothing heat.
A direction toward which to head, no, not one, The Direction. The one
hoped.

But to the will of its movements, mist closes again itself and the
horizon darkens, of white darkness. Lost in the middle of nothing, with
all this life, that guesses itself behind the white curtain, without can
reach it. A veil of inaccessible.

The pockets full of expired tickets, memories of one useless life, you
scrape the dusty drawers in search of a lost wealth, as the chronicle of
a disaster announced. The Angels to the wings of silver don't flew for a
long time. Does one ever know when a life stops? One ever knows when it
becomes only a squeaky wagon pursuing its race on its momentum until the
terminus of the unlikely.

On the gray and gluey sidewalk, your hazardous steps don't lead more
nowhere. There was a time, yes, there was a time but this one is bygone.
There are some ghosts only in the desolate and cold court of your
expectations. Then one makes a little bit last the breath, the flame.
One evening, you saw the tramps who cheered with empty glasses of
champagne, and they laughed. You exhaust yourself to hunt this mist of
your short breath to tempt to see a new time this light...
If only this one could not immediately die out, if it was able to...

"And true love waits
In haunted attics
[...] I’m not living, I’m just killing time
Your tiny hands, your crazy-kitten smile
Just don't leave
Don’t leave"

Radiohead, A True Love Waits.

wow

Ahhh...Radiohead

You don't say anything anymore.
Here. Because elsewhere...
There would yet be some things to say.
Here. And so much to shut up sometimes elsewhere.
You could yet say everything that bubbles in you, in this pot of the
devil where all mixes itself.

You could nearly say these high, your fears, his, these pinches of hopes
that don't admit to being, these joys, these incomprehensions, these
hesitations, your silly impatience, these instants magic, these steps
back, your doubts, his sentences sometimes that creak from afar in the
stomach, these characteristic tingles, these smiles, from afar, your
disarray sometimes, his words as flowers, your questionings, his
laughters, this non-existence, so many things, of sensations...

You could say all that. You should say all that. Instead of that, you
put the lid on the pot. And all gets to boil even stronger. Then you
align some songs on CDs to say nothing about everything that you want to
say.
Or to say it while shutting up...

"Were you tired of the laughter
Were you bored of the pain
Is the bond now broken
Does nothing remain
Shoulder to shoulder
Like two stones in a bag"

Excuse For Travellers, She Brokes You Softly.