wall of time

Seconds scrub our life away like

waves scraping down the coast

or rain dragging away the earth.

 

We watched time eat our clasped hands,

falling away one fragment of skin after another

and never said a word about it.

 

We felt the approaching wall coming

but could not seem to put it into words;

the beauty of an ageless love had become

the tragedy of the leaves,

aged, dying and passionless.

The lost art of writing

Writing isn't what it used to be. Blogs have ruined it, some say. Others say my dumb-founded generation, and the generation preceding it ruined it before that. This is too big of an issue to tackle in a blog post, but I wanted to share two prime examples of exceptionally good writing, from the modern era (last thirty years or so). I won't ruin them by explaining why I think they're great piece of writing, so that's up for you to decide. Here they are:

 

"…off to the right of this typewriter, on the floor between the beds, I can see an 8×10 print of Frank Mankiewicz yelling into a telephone at the Democratic Convention in Miami; but that one will never be used, because the god-damn hound put five big claw-holes in the middle of Frank's chest."

– from Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72

 

"I shaved carefully with an old razor

the man who had once been young and

said to have genius; but

that's the tragedy of the leaves,

the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world has failed us
both"

– from Charles Bukowski's The Tragedy of the Leaves