Friday, March 30, 2007

Bloor Line, doesn't look up once.

Caucasian male, early 20s, with bright red stubble, wearing a grey hoodie and jean jacket. His back pocket bulges under the weight of his wallet and a chain dangles from his waistband.

Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke (Norton)

Page 72:

And if there is one thing more that I must say to you, it is this: Do not believe that he who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. His life has much difficulty and sadness and remains far behind yours. Were it otherwise he would never have been able to find those words.

He planted the last tree and wiped his hands on the front of his thighs. He cut through the field to where the stream narrows and found the bunch of them laughing, an open cooler filled with beer and cold cuts. She tore at the skin of a large olive with her teeth, rolling it over her fingers before popping it whole into her mouth. Bottles clinked, a quick Cheers to a hard day. She rubbed her lower back, trying to feel grateful for the pain if it meant she was still alive. She tapped tobacco onto a paper and licked the edge, laughing at the tail end of a joke she didn't hear. Tomorrow she'd start treatment.

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