|Photo by: Francesca Woodman|
We are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting. Or maybe I just bloom and wither so easily that it is impossible to reach out for me at the very moment when my love is worth something. Truth is I love you like a woman loves a man she never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of. And there isn't much more to it, really.
Sex is kicking death in the ass while singing. I don't think it should ever be anything less than that. But I can't blame you if you wonder why I'm here with you. Where are the other guys? How can you be lucky? Having someone that others have abandoned? My regrets sit heavy next to me, pushing you aside. And there isn't much more to it, really.
Paula Sanz y Charles Bukowski