Here I am, I barely survived a play by Beckett, the tension towards something, nothing. The nonsense, sitting in a chair modeled after a 10years old child.

As always I feel illiterate, unable to get the meaning of postmodern art - literature - movies. Maybe I watched topgun far too many times to appreciate it.

So let me point you to a great poem, in exchange. It by Amy Lowell, american poetress.

(click on "read more" to get it all)

In a time of dearth
Before me,
On either side of me,
I see sand.
If I turn the corner of my house,
I see sand,
Long, brown
Lines and levels of flat
Sand.
If I could only see a mirage,
Blue-white at the horizon,
With palm-trees about it;
Tall, windless palm-trees, grouped about a-glitter.
If I could strain toward it,
And think of the water creeping round my ankles,
Tickling under my knees,
Leeching up my sides,
Spreading over my back.
But I only feel the grinding beneath my feet.
And I only see sand,
Long, dry sand,
Scorching sand --
Sand.

If a sand-storm would only come
And spit against my windows,
Snapping upon them, and ringing their vibrations;
Swirling over the roof;
Seeping under the door-jamb;
Suffocating me and making me struggle for air.
But I only see sand --
Sand lying dead in the sun.
Lines and lines of sand --
Sand.

I will paste newspapers over the windows to shut out the sand;
I will fit them into one another, and fasten the corners.
Then I will strike matches
And read of politics and murders and festivals
Three years old.
But I shall not see the sand any more,
And I can read
While my matches last.