if my heart is in the right place, what does it matter where i live?
but my heart is breathing and splintering and pulsating in many different places all at once. on the streets of new york, en el malécon en la habana, in the fall leaves turning colour in the pioneer valley, somewhere in the valley of kashmir where i have yet not traveled, in the walled city of lahore, on a farm called kopkind in vermont.
it is september and i can only think of when guildenstern says, in tom stoppard’s ‘rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead’
“autumnal - nothing to do with leaves. it is to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day…Brown is creeping upon us, take my word for it…Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses.”
except i still think the leaves have everything to do with khizaan.
