My Wandering Days

by Juliana Werring

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Imagine sitting on some towels on a beach,
and suddenly it’s raining, and you scramble up,
to a stall inside the bathhouse where
the towel you choose to dry yourself off with
is only a little dryer than you are,
and then, as you continue drying, isn’t,
It’s wet too, too wet, wetting as much as drying,
You pick another towel up but it’s damp too, in fact they all are, every one
as wet as you are, towel and skin
exchanging the same dampness—if the bathhouse door were open you could run outside
Into the sun and dry yourself off, or find
another towel and pass the wetness on
in a one-way trade off of damp for dry.
But now imagine that the doors are locked,
the stall door and the bathhouse door, and you,
You can’t get out, you have only these towels,
you can’t escape these towels, you can’t get new ones,
there’s no way to make one thing go one way or another: imagine energy as dampness,
the jiggling accidents of energy
spread out like dampness over everything
So evenly that there is nothing left
of any kind of more of this for less
of that to balance or redress, no one
to help or call to, nobody else to touch:
Now picture everyone locked up with you,
each in his own stall, having waited there
so long inside that chilly damp enclosure
that the world beyond it may as well not exist,
or ever have existed, and you’re all shivering
in the cold air, but since no warmth remains,
there is no shivering, nobody is there.



book sneak. pt. 1

50+ double page compositions.

karborn 2014

(via microwave-dinner)

Classic @jiwonshinoh

Classic @jiwonshinoh