Just like that, a week gone and nothing written here about it. Cue inevitable cliche (time, fly, fun, blah).
Get thee behind me, Real Life.
For now, have some Primo Levi, who I’ve been enjoying these days in rare moments of solitude:
After R.M. Rilke
Lord, it’s time; the wine is already fermenting.
The time has come to have a home,
Or to remain for a long time without one.
The time has come not to be alone,
Or else we will stay alone for a long time.
We will consume the hours over books,
Or in writing letters to distant places,
Long letters from our solitude.
And we will go back and forth through the streets,
Restless, while the leaves fall.
(You might also want to read Rilke’s Autumn Day, which the above poem was written in response to.)