chasing details in this most nostalgic air of earthly time; all is an illuminated grey, all is mute but of the kind that makes the mind colour in the rest. winter snuck in too quickly while i was turned away, too easy now that time and space are all scattered. freedom tastes bright, blinding in a way that makes the eyes light up so you can see to the depth of them; freedom used to feel bigger, and the small pieces explode in a silent, slow blur. the moments smell slightly old, like they were worn before, and are home to foxes and llamas hiding in the bushes. in the mist, the angels still pray alone, but now with seeking, outstretched arms, hugged only by the cool richness of the heavy, yellow-tinted air around them, while scenes and places dash by too quickly for them to grasp.

i remember years ago, watching the large red moon staring down at the highway i found myself on, i remember barely believing the scene, the air that's so familiar now and yet still so foreign. the moon is smaller now, and pale, and there are still no stars, only dark satin magic, the night beautiful in her simplicity. the default is lying on the floor, on a bed of flowers, if only for the feeling of touch, more roughness and little battles of sensation against more skin. the flowers stretch everywhere, as if to show me the way, and i realise finally that it is only me here now, only me and my prayers and the unbearable, stuffy silence in my mind eating up time with dark, hungry eyes. visions are not linear, hardly anything seems to go in the same direction of time, and i keep finding myself returning to the same hiding spot, the same emotional turbulence in which there is still something to protect. meanwhile, i toast to myself and the comedy, and fall back to feel the carpet against my cheeks, and watch the moon in her dusty solitude. no dreams tonight, no humanity - only sensing

no mans land in the post sea desert, tiny ants crawling around hungry for life, longing for pink sunsets and the fresh breeze of tingling evening energy. in the midst of it 3am wakings with a cloud of nervous hurrahs pounding in the stomach that no smoke in the world can relieve; tired, trembling, wide open eyes searching for the next spark to fire into dry leaves, little flames jumping around laughing at my weak body. limping in joy around a war zone of children armed with hammers, sparks across the ceiling and the best people around me to stumble into a pile with - melt away to the glow of the burning sun, smell of grilled flesh and quietly exploding heads; euphoria

what a strange feeling love is, and the comets rise and fall in front of a blood red moon

catching yourself falling for the same moments in life, the same details; simple images and tunes, even stronger when accompanied with big smiles spread across a whole family's face, capturing all the travels and car rides, the city moves, the sunday morning breakfasts, the coming-homes. what does it take to live a rich enough life to really know the characters twisting out of the stories you are to tell. the space is full of stories, ready to jump at you from all that seems blank and empty, with a plea to let them live, and it's time to dance through and take them with you, the all-age childhood eyes full of melancholy drama and joy and romance and longing for adventure.