ジョシュ・ブローリンさんのインスタグラム写真 - (ジョシュ・ブローリンInstagram)「I’ll drink wine out of a glass from now on. I’ll get the glass from a flea market, one that’s rough to the touch and pink or blue like old cheap church windows. I’ll hold it at its base and snap my fingernail against its rim listening for its value, but there will be no value to hang in the air, and I’ll smile. It will be a glass like the ones on the dish rack at old man Wiebe’s house, next to the peeling Formica table, just above the faded sallow linoleum floor. It will have been touched by those people who work for a living, sweat through each day and by those waiting for husbands to come home. It will have been used by those having just finished the dishes seeing suddenly their rotund men across the room, in lazy chairs, looking back over their shoulders with eyes of sex and ghost sounds of four posted pine beds creaking wildly. It will be a glass muddy with a man’s hand just come off the tractor after plowing hundreds of acres of oat, lungs swirling with dust. This glass will be valuable only in that it is thoroughly American: accessible, tasteless. I will sip from this glass, grocery store wine, enduring headaches long before I close my eyes to sleep. I’ll fill my glass then raise it to those who have touched it before, those rough hands of gentle people who blossom and wilt like wild flowers.  Photo: @kathrynbrolin」8月10日 0時23分 - joshbrolin

ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 8月10日 00時23分


I’ll drink wine out of a glass from now on. I’ll get the glass from a flea market, one that’s rough to the touch and pink or blue like old cheap church windows. I’ll hold it at its base and snap my fingernail against its rim listening for its value, but there will be no value to hang in the air, and I’ll smile. It will be a glass like the ones on the dish rack at old man Wiebe’s house, next to the peeling Formica table, just above the faded sallow linoleum floor. It will have been touched by those people who work for a living, sweat through each day and by those waiting for husbands to come home. It will have been used by those having just finished the dishes seeing suddenly their rotund men across the room, in lazy chairs, looking back over their shoulders with eyes of sex and ghost sounds of four posted pine beds creaking wildly. It will be a glass muddy with a man’s hand just come off the tractor after plowing hundreds of acres of oat, lungs swirling with dust. This glass will be valuable only in that it is thoroughly American: accessible, tasteless. I will sip from this glass, grocery store wine, enduring headaches long before I close my eyes to sleep.
I’ll fill my glass then raise it to those who have touched it before, those rough hands of gentle people who blossom and wilt like wild flowers.

Photo: @kathrynbrolin


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