Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman

I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.”

And the flies carry that pollen to her ear, burrow inside, and put her to sleep,” my friend added, struggling to light his cigarette with the damp matches. “But what happens to the flies?”
“They stay inside the woman and eat her flesh—naturally,” his girlfriend said.
“Gobble it up,” my friend said.

A blind willow looks small on the outside, but it’s got incredibly deep roots,” she explained. “Actually, after a certain point it stops growing up and pushes further and further down into the ground. Like the darkness nourishes it.”

blind willow turned out to be a tree the size of an azalea. The tree was in bloom, the flowers surrounded by dark green leaves like a bunch of lizard tails gathered in a bunch. The blind willow didn’t resemble a willow at all.

She was drawing a picture. The napkin was too soft and the tip of her pen kept getting stuck. Still, she managed to draw a hill. And a small house on top of the hill. A woman was asleep in the house. The house was surrounded by a stand of blind willows. It was the blind willows that had put her to sleep.
“What the heck’s a blind willow?” my friend asked.
“There is a kind of tree like that.”
“Well, I never heard of it.”
“That’s ’cause I’m the one who created it,” she said, smiling. “Blind willows have a lot of pollen, and tiny flies covered with the stuff crawled inside her ear and put the woman to sleep.”

“A blind willow looks small on the outside, but it’s got incredibly deep roots,” she explained. “Actually, after a certain point it stops growing up and pushes further and further down into the ground. Like the darkness nourishes it.”

“Everybody has that kind of feeling sometimes,” I said. “You can’t express yourself the way you want to, and it annoys you.”

that the most frightening thing in the world is our own self. What do you think?

A man’s death at twenty-eight is as sad as the winter rain.

Cause and effect were good buddies back then; thesis and reality hugged each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.