“The work is the death mask of its conception.”
(Walter Benjamin, One Way Streets)
He didn’t think he could get lost
Crossing those streets he used to cross.
He didn’t think he’d forget those possessions
That were so hard to get.
Crossing those thoughts, watching them fade,
Falling in love with the things he made.
As if in a dream, walking those streets
Fascinated by the things he meets.