Suppose, nothing is mine
What then, is my subject
Not ours?
Some pills? No I shake my head. O, you are fit to suffer. The company phd replies.
Women like me like to level. You like to help. Sorry, I do not tolerate soumission. Let' s play papa and mama at home.
TRUE BLUE. The tenderness between your hands. Sure, a mus can have hands, at least in my story. The tenderness between your hands and a new presented book. Between your right pointingfinger and the paper of the glossy cover, the skin of your fingertip touching the area of the image. Surprisingly not reaching out for the letters, the words. Touching and wanting to know whitin a second the origine of the imprint, black and white.
I am so sorry. What? I am really sorry. Sorry for not meeting you in 1991. Or earlier. I did not see you before sometime in twothousandthirteen. Till you asked me, what do you think of me? And I wittingly answered ' a bit if a digital bite'. ' That falls with it', you answered. Very cryptical. When fishes do it, the male gives the female a short bite, you knew that? I saw it on television the other day. Anyway, you are not a fish, are you? You are my Juvenile, my Joris, my Jantje van Essenveld. I love the new, the young at heart, even when they are older than sixtyfive.
Later, I will write you about Jantje, Jan now. About Jantje and Ronald, my wings, my guardian angels. The ones who waited for me, when I was late, because of a wrongly punishing master. Especially Jan, he made jokes, he made me smile again. His award. And I will tell you about Ronald, who kept us both going. Silent Ronald. Always on the move.
It seems you are both, Joppi. It seems. Confusing it is. What are your thoughts when you are touching a book, caressing the paper? What is the sensation. A name, please.
What then, is my subject
Not ours?
Some pills? No I shake my head. O, you are fit to suffer. The company phd replies.
Women like me like to level. You like to help. Sorry, I do not tolerate soumission. Let' s play papa and mama at home.
TRUE BLUE. The tenderness between your hands. Sure, a mus can have hands, at least in my story. The tenderness between your hands and a new presented book. Between your right pointingfinger and the paper of the glossy cover, the skin of your fingertip touching the area of the image. Surprisingly not reaching out for the letters, the words. Touching and wanting to know whitin a second the origine of the imprint, black and white.
I am so sorry. What? I am really sorry. Sorry for not meeting you in 1991. Or earlier. I did not see you before sometime in twothousandthirteen. Till you asked me, what do you think of me? And I wittingly answered ' a bit if a digital bite'. ' That falls with it', you answered. Very cryptical. When fishes do it, the male gives the female a short bite, you knew that? I saw it on television the other day. Anyway, you are not a fish, are you? You are my Juvenile, my Joris, my Jantje van Essenveld. I love the new, the young at heart, even when they are older than sixtyfive.
Later, I will write you about Jantje, Jan now. About Jantje and Ronald, my wings, my guardian angels. The ones who waited for me, when I was late, because of a wrongly punishing master. Especially Jan, he made jokes, he made me smile again. His award. And I will tell you about Ronald, who kept us both going. Silent Ronald. Always on the move.
It seems you are both, Joppi. It seems. Confusing it is. What are your thoughts when you are touching a book, caressing the paper? What is the sensation. A name, please.
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