http://slow.writerscafe.org/abonhassan The original writings of author Abon Hassan en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776231641 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 If I could summarize what you mean to me, would be a crime I can’t bear, and mostly I would sound corny and distasteful, though yet it could bring you some satisfaction. Not for a moment I think out of the consequences or profit it would bring to me, because you’re more of a friend than .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2799846/ It’s not that Idon’t believe in you, it’s just that, I’ve come to think we’re different, andany philosophy that complicit with your thoughts, makes me want to be blind, toforget you ever existed;It’s in ournature to love while the depth lowers itself t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2797437/ The more I talk,the more I see reason in silence, people are beautiful and profound on theirown, in their promises they seek, in their words they thrive, but in conversationI leave the reminiscent of my soul with them, to explore, to see;I seekconnection, even when it doesn’t seem .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2796187/ The everrenewing, tasteful, warm energy of morning coffee, transforms men intomachines, ever working in jeans and white shirts;As it hitsmidday and the plowing stops, one second of self-reflection, and ten minutes ofsustaining food, swallowed fast, and indigest, unbecoming and partly fau.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2795923/ Smooth textures forgotten before felt, yet turning into feelings inside the skin;I am new and tan and happy, couldn’t expect to be whole, as the spirit longs for the grains of sand laid on the shore, sinking in my feet.The body is entertained, burnt, shaken in the natural form, naked despite t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2795835/ The streets of Arraial are beautiful... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2795832/ My Journey through Rio de Janeiro. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2795830/ For we won't hold each other's hands anymore, and that'll be the end of me. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2795343/ Thy truth is outof time, same as when thou knocks on that door and no one answers, carrying therock alone as Sisyphus;I’ve accepted mytruth, as I can’t carry anything else, nor religion nor love, or the thingsthat men happen to know by experience.I know for sureI’.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2795234/ I wake up Friday morning and look at your picture, unlike any other I’ve ever seen, it has a touch of heroic character and perhaps like the sunset at Copacabana and midnight in Paris, both distinguishable for their beauty.Sitting at the grocery I ask for coffee and toasted bread, closing my ey.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2795038/ As a man dies before a shooting squad, his friend and coleague wishes for him in heaven the piece he couldn't get in life. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2794544/ I, the man, the madand the lover.Still use themind, so brisk and violent, to fall for they whom I ask the world, whom I trustthe chest, and fill the liver.I cannot fall,for I am against gravity, I decay in long walks to the city, where the pubs,and the pavement collide, face to fac.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2794172/ An old man dwells on the lost of his wife, and having to take care of his child alone. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2794155/ I want to see through the palm of her hands; feel the heat of her steps. Perception is tricky and none will tell what's beyond that smile, and what facts astound her mind. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2793145/ Hold my hand, for I’ll take you to my cold apartment. Talk under candlelight. Sweat that wine that waits untouched. Bring the heat to the bed, in which we’ll make love and forget there was ever anything beyond us. Lost horizons, Unattended meetings, short skirts and good whooping. Anyway.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2793047/ As she cries, I'll take her hand and listen, for there's no better sentiment than genuine expression. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2793010/ Isn’t it interesting, the little smuggler at sea,encumbered with fear of getting caught? I’m aware of the danger of that. Yet nothingis equal. I can swim beyond seas of laughter and still be sad, detached fromreality and the things that come and go. Leave me, I’ll break .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2792968/ Nothing changes from breeze to cold, just the flute that whispers in ones head, in a musical trance, that brings the sheep into the slaughter house. I think, therefore I am. Descartes' foolish idea was to think we are somewhat mathematical absolutes, as a sum of numbers that never seem to end. Senti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2792849/ Her face blooms from the underground sap, that feeds the blossoms in the trees. The nose striking the sky, and the eyes brown as the trunks that stand strong, even in winter when the wind blows, and the rain falls. 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Perhaps I am the sum of generations that came to be, and today is my birthday, and an unstoppable thought echoes in my mind, to be alive is to... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2770008/ A memory about two people whose path I crossed, and made me think about how eternal is the small little moments of our childhood, we forget them, but they are still with us at every step. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abonhassan/2769945/