“But going over the bridge, the sun setting, the skyscrapers gleaming like phosphorescent cadavers, the remembrance of the past set in… remembrance of going back and forth over the bridge, going to a job which was death, returning to a home which was a morgue, memorizing Faust looking down into the cemetery, spitting into the cemetery from the elevated train, the same guard on the platform every morning, an imbecile, the other imbeciles reading their newspapers, new skyscrapers going up, new tombs to work and die in…”
Too bad Mr Miller isn’t around anymore. I’d be happy to buy him dinner and a few beers. Or, I don’t know, maybe some sparkling water, now that I’m sober.
0 comments