Sleepless in the cold dark, I look through the closed dim door be- fore me, which be- comes an abyss into which my memories have fallen past laughter or horror, passion or hard work—my memories of our past laughter, horror, passion, hard work. An ache of be- ing. An ache of being, over love. An ache of being over love. Like projections on the screen of the heavy window curtains, flashing lights of a slow-scraping after- midnight snowplow for a moment pulse in this room. Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa. |