you take a stool, unfold the paper, the waitress bring the
java, you order bacon and
everybody in there is old and bent and poor, they are like
the oldest people in the universe
and it’s dark in there like the inside of a glove
and some of the patrons speak to each other,
only their voices are broken and scratched and they speak
of simple things,
you think that they are joking but
they hulk over their food, unsmiling…
“Casmir died, he wore his green shoes…”
strange place there, no sadness, no rancor, an overheard
fan turns slowly, one of the blades bent a bit, it
clicks gainst the grate: “a-flick, a-flick, a-flick…”
- Charles Bukowski, Small Cafe (via andanonymity)
Sentences are made wonderfully one at a time. Who makes them. Nobody can make them because nobody can what ever they do see.
All this makes sentences so clear I know how I like them.
What is a sentence mostly what is a sentence. With them a sentence is with us about us all about us we will be willing with what a sentence is. A sentence is that they cannot be carefully there is a doubt about it.
The great question is can you think a sentence. What is a sentence. He thought a sentence. Who calls him to come which he did.
…What is a sentence. A sentence is a duplicate. An exact duplicate is depreciated. Why is a duplicated sentence not depreciated. Because it is a witness. No witnesses are without value."
Gertrude Stein, A Stein Reader (via insipidexpectations)
this reads how drunk I would say..