The sky was to wait for Barbara Hershey behind every corner. The sky was eighties and New York. Missing (or not?) Michael Caine, wrapped in rancid trench coat. I looked out the window and noticed the changing landscape. I always thought that every time there is a light of its own, as is each generation that lives there. It is a baseless suspicion, but that gives reason to the past. Justified. To me it is enough. I return to it from time to time. The fundamental question is whether we can identify this with a promise of the past, seen or perceived even sideways in a single event in a person who looks or something you think. There is no place for such insights. Now it's better this way, a weight that takes away from him. Today's cars can build on the pools, while their mothers are snack children. And every act of dying itself. "It has always been, man." Yes, I know.
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