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Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza to travel.

None of these will bring disaster. And look! I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. Lovely how lives of the great overlap or just miss. Amherst was Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza Amherst, but Akhmatova lived, and her work was banned, in protean St. Would they have talked of lovers? Which hurts most?

Starvation or betrayal and disgust? I had been told about her. How she would always, always. How she would never, never. How she never, never. In the small brave night, her lips, butterfly moments. I tried to catch her and she laughed a loud laugh that cracked me in two, but then I had been told about her, how she would always, always.

We two listened to the wind. We two galloped a pace. We two, up and away, away, away. But then I had been told about her - how she would always, always. So what do you think, Life, it seemed pretty good to me, though quiet, I guess, and unspectacular. I get that the coffee, the sunlight on glassware, the Sunday paper and our studious lightness, not hearing the phone, are iconic of living regretless in the Now. I feel helplessly young.

Someone told me there are more connections in the human brain than stars in the known universe. But a synapse wants me to disagree. How many stars are there anyway. How many stories Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza hiding in the jowls of our dead. The afternoon is a fist punching my heart. There is a tunnel of emptiness ahead and behind us. All six billion of us are drunk on hearsay.

Time is a long strange finger pointing to the moon. I mean my grandfather is Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza is more alone than anyone. How many more suppers are waiting on white plastic trays.

How many televisions are holding the hands of our lonely. How many million hands. If every connection in our brains were equal to a breath, how far would that be. In these woods I step blind over logs, unsettle boulders, thrust a clumsy stick into dark caves to find you, to run my lonely fingertips along the sequin-dazzle of your low slither. I would charm you if I could with shiny baubles, a shoebox of all the old gifts: creeksplash over moss-slick stones, a teacup of blue-black crickets.

But I am clatter and stomp in this green quiet. Instinct tightens you to tremble and strike. In the bloodbeat before each bite, I marvel at your taut grace—swell with pride at the honed arc you master to carry fang to heart. Ah, why did we give you…to a mortal, while you are deathless and ageless?

Nothing is more miserable than man of all that breathes and moves upon earth. Stanley Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza. The children wear strange hats and their boots point like nettles. Men wish to be thrown, and, understanding, I toss them, light as milkweed.

But how tiring to make a living from this act of riddance: spur in the side and belly. If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick, the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse— then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance, bit, and bite. I have made them up—all of them— and when I say I am married, it means I married all of them, a whole neighborhood Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza past loves.

Can you imagine Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza number of bouquets, how many slices of cake? Even now, my husbands plan a great meal for us—one chops up some parsley, one stirs Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza bubbling pot on the stove. One changes the baby, and one sleeps in a fat chair. One flips through the newspaper, another whistles while he shaves in the shower, and every single one of them wonders what time I am coming home.

Do not make things too easy. There are rocks and abysses in the mind As well as meadows. There are things knotty and hard: intractable. Do not talk to me of love and understanding. I am sick Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza blandishments. I want the rock to be met by a rock. If I am vile, Tashkent sesso Photo sesso ragazza behave hideously, Do not tell me it was just a misunderstanding.

How she would never, never We two listened to the wind. Stanley Lombardo It was meant to be a gift, though the gods should know by now it never is: sick of it themselves, grown fidgety, restless, meddlesome.

It was harder on me of course than Balius, him having never known speech while I tongue the narrow trough of my mouth and half expect words to return.

After a time, we gave up being untamable, and let ourselves be led, be put to whatever tasks men could imagine. They call this place Texas, hot enough for wandering souls, where all of time stretches before me as an endless tunnel of wind.

The children wear strange hats and their boots point like nettles be tween fence boards. Men wish to be thrown, and, understanding, I toss them, light as milkweed, as burdock.