“The hands of a clock run in only one direction.”
Text from South of the Border, West of the Sun by Haruki Murakami (pp. 44-5)
Collage on paper.
Not yet 72 hours sober.
Hanging on.
Xx
200416: Anything, Honest
poetry & prose by HLR
Treacle Heart 
Saw this, liked it, flipped through the book on a curious whim, and found that somehow the only bit I’d marked in the entire thing was “choking, like every day I was shrinking and would someday disappear completely.”
Fair enough.
Hang in there. x o x
Excellent! I really like this. :)