I use to dream about you. I use to wish that i’d see you. Bump into you. Anywhere. Everywhere. I fantasised about you and I longed for you with an ache that made its way down and into my bones. Did you ever know? We never said anything out loud. Never said the way we felt, so maybe you did. I did eventually find a way to soothe the ache you left in my bones so if you never felt anything back don’t worry. I can walk down busy city streets without searching for your blue eyes. I can drink my coffee with way too much added milk with out it reminding me of the colour of your skin. The one thing i can’t do Is breath, but I guess that was the price I had to pay to shut down a piece of my soul. I still yearn for you. I still miss you and I will always love you
In an ever-changing, incomprehensible world the masses had reached the point where they would, at the same time, believe everything and nothing, think that everything was possible and that nothing was true…Mass propaganda discovered that its audience was ready at all times to believe the worst, no matter how absurd, and did not particularly object to being deceived because it held every statement to be a lie anyhow.
The totalitarian mass leaders based their propaganda on the correct psychological assumption that, under such conditions, one could make people believe the most fantastic statements one day, and trust that if the next day they were given irrefutable proof of their falsehood, they would take refuge in cynicism; instead of deserting the leaders who had lied to them, they would protest that they had known all along that the statement was a lie and would admire the leaders for their superior tactical cleverness.
No es nada de tu cuerpo
ni tu piel, ni tus ojos, ni tu vientre,
ni ese lugar secreto que los dos conocemos,
fosa de nuestra muerte, final de nuestro entierro.
No es tu boca -tu boca
que es igual que tu sexo-,
ni la reunión exacta de tus pechos,
ni tu espalda dulcísima y suave,
ni tu ombligo en que bebo.
Ni son tus muslos duros como el día,
ni tus rodillas de marfil al fuego,
ni tus pies diminutos y sangrantes,
ni tu olor, ni tu pelo.
No es tu mirada -¿qué es una mirada?-
triste luz descarriada, paz sin dueño,
ni el álbum de tu oído, ni tus voces,
ni las ojeras que te deja el sueño.
Ni es tu lengua de víbora tampoco,
flecha de avispas en el aire ciego,
ni la humedad caliente de tu asfixia
que sostiene tu beso.
No es nada de tu cuerpo,
ni una brizna, ni un pétalo,
ni una gota, ni un grano, ni un momento.
Es sólo este lugar donde estuviste,
estos mis brazos tercos.