As I read some shadows are creeping in my books: they hope to live among the curves, the names, the grey lines, the syllables. Even when the words live in profound stillness in my bookshelves, there is no reason to respect eternity. Shadows gnaw the heart of words tonight. My eyes, as they read, are ascending, climbing, sucking out the essence of life. There is enough light to see the incorrigible hope of some shadows: they lurched along the valley of the blank pages. They have been trying to find the proper shape of love: their muscles are climbing up those branches (my books). Naturally, I do not care. St Augustine’s words are echoing in my hands. Anything might happen. But words came to raise their voices mysteriously. The shadows wavered.
Words stilled life for a second. The light in my room became furtive: it was a look of perpetual apprehension.
My eyes broke off a bloom there.
Faith by The Cure (Richard Skinner Sessions, 1981-02-26)
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