Dean's California - wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to foregather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.

nothing can quite describe the feeling of the dreams, and these images turned into dream-like fragments once again, nothing nothing nothing can quite be that love pouring out of the kerouac frenzy-filled madness that i seek everywhere, but this was my search for it. susan and i under the big bright blue western sky, westcoast starlights and sunrises, oh the excitement

washington & oregon & the american dream

dreams are quaint, and mixing with reality, entering the temples through sleep deprived deep cuts in the thumbs and lungs, and everything is too much, like a steady drip drip drip through the needles in the shrines and gods right to the edge of the eyes, where ink splatters into a red mess. all the news of the world bundle up into huge waves, and the sand is made of faces, smiling, though some are not, and my mind sinks a little. dreams are quaint, but also huge, there's fresh air and the smoke of the clouds below, there's little pots of flowers and northern winter, and majestic, moving mountains rolling around the earth to hunt -

i got lost in foreign lands

these days just looking for words, feelings dampened and kinda mute in their colours, the gray blankets covering the world softly, and you can make out some light on the other side, but to put it into words - that's all there is, words and that was all and all and all and not caring. the year starts off uncertainly, evenings of feeling comfortable in the hot chill blurry sick skin, mornings non-existing but breakfast and lunch and dinner all there nicely tidy in their structures of the world; not a single change was released as the last sparkler burnt down in the smoke-filled, beautiful berlin night in which times came together, and love for them all


summer's a long while gone

sitting at desks and dancing a little, with the face just grimacing a bit with the thunderstorms of the mind, followed by cartoonish looks around the room to hide it back in. the world is boiling, and all is changing but me, all is still the same but there are things to be excited for, maybe, maybe soon, maybe
and maybe sometimes it's worth remembering that paris will always be beautiful

old times return to me in tacky little outfits and neon green veils, and it feels safe, unlike the relentlessness of large, dark spaces and the pain in my boiling bones, ribcage that is; but i love it
sometimes piles of moments are just piles though,