Nights and days pass inside my mind and I can not figure out how to finish this set of entries about the 2013 Fall in 170 Wurster Hall.
Days and nights pass outside my self, pushing me to write a last entry before the Fall ends.
Two words have knocked me during these Moons and Suns of time: "to close" and "farewell". I had not write them until now. As soon as I jotted them down I realize why am I blocked: closeness is something not so far from a grave. Whereas farewell is a word that I knew for a poem by Neruda: a poem that nothing has to do with 170 Wurster Hall, even when Farewell is rooted around my heart and it was through my hands that I explored my heart at 170 Wurster Hall.
There are no place for talking about death nor to intellectualize a meaning that does not vibe at this time. For 170 Wurster Hall is a time for place and rhyme. A rhythm for myth and tune. A hearth for the rainbow and the lighthouse. A sea outside of a bottle that it is outside of a message. A cabin. A delta. A crossroad. A hammer. Honey falling down. A bridge and a hill. A wrapped mountain. A whale in the middle of the air. A New York map. A shoe on the wall. A spring beneath the stairs. A mermaid. A good night for Irene.
An echo...
A peace in its labyrinth. Lights in the heart. Doors. Mustaches and plaits. A little headlight. Clay. Branches. Sticky tongues. Dreams. Tears. Laughing. Watercolor. A spring of life...
Walking eyes from the East to the West. To the South. To the Middle East. And back to the West: A compass sealing on the map. A captain...
