Souvenirs of Innocence
Lithographic crayon resist and sugar lift etching,
blue ink on cream Rives BFK
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Lithographic crayon resist and sugar lift etching,
blue ink on cream Rives BFK
A feeling of unfulfilled nostalgia-
Yet you don't smoke, so I have nothing to collect. 0/421
[had an obsessive thought about the Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk]
I allow myself 20 cigarettes for the year-a perfect pack, saved for moments of real anguish and occasions for performances of melancholy. For either cause and every cigaret, the smoke I puff out makes out of the shape of its idiocy and half-and-half sincerity-and-artifice.
In the process of mourning our love, I smoked seven. A bit over a third of my yearly ration. "Proper." I thought, as a farewell.
Yet, why? As I stubbed out my seventh one, the image of you began to ignite. I thought of Pamuk's Museum of Innocence, along with the 4213 lip-stick-stained cigarette stubs the author meticulously collected, cleaned, dated and supposedly belonged to the heroine of his novel, Fusun. "Before it turned into ashes..." I suddenly had an urge to cling onto something.
Artifacts of peculiar shapes, imprints of your singular intimacy.
I wondered whether you even know I smoke. And if you do, would you ever think to collect these stubs of mine?
I know if you smoke, I would collect yours.
Yet you don't smoke, so I have nothing to collect. 0/4213
Yet you don't smoke, so I have nothing to collect. 0/421
[had an obsessive thought about the Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk]
I allow myself 20 cigarettes for the year-a perfect pack, saved for moments of real anguish and occasions for performances of melancholy. For either cause and every cigaret, the smoke I puff out makes out of the shape of its idiocy and half-and-half sincerity-and-artifice.
In the process of mourning our love, I smoked seven. A bit over a third of my yearly ration. "Proper." I thought, as a farewell.
Yet, why? As I stubbed out my seventh one, the image of you began to ignite. I thought of Pamuk's Museum of Innocence, along with the 4213 lip-stick-stained cigarette stubs the author meticulously collected, cleaned, dated and supposedly belonged to the heroine of his novel, Fusun. "Before it turned into ashes..." I suddenly had an urge to cling onto something.
Artifacts of peculiar shapes, imprints of your singular intimacy.
I wondered whether you even know I smoke. And if you do, would you ever think to collect these stubs of mine?
I know if you smoke, I would collect yours.
Yet you don't smoke, so I have nothing to collect. 0/4213