About this submission

I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,
tenderness flowing thru the buildings,
my fingertips touching reality’s face,
my own face streaked with tears in the mirror
of some window—at dusk—
where I have no desire—
for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese
lampshades of intellection—

Allen Ginsberg, My Sad Self, 1958

TR
Tallulah Remond-Stephen
Creator

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