a drop of poison in the peace, & i'm back again. all is the same, the need for more; more life; knowing more is more confusion in the thick jungles of the mind, & i close my eyes at night listening to time pass by in silence; a shiver, it's still freezing cold so we skip about trying to bring the blood to boil again; cold, sun sunny sunshine days

after a day of calibration, it feels like a holiday again, as all the smiles on the streets blend into one sunny show of teeth; the question marks come back stronger after a long while of mindless running to avoid them, & i dread them now. summer is coming though, & the wine hasn't changed, & in fact nothing ever changes & i'm waiting for the past to recycle. we're all floating anyway, swimming our circles around pretty afternoon light, i'm waiting for it to get lazier so i can plunge into it all; sometimes the surface is just too tense, & i want to feel what's underneath.

midsommar was everything; & feels

desperate overflows of energy as times move, away from the real world; sometimes things need to break for all to stop, as i spend a day bound to the ground not knowing what to do so watching the sun make his move across the sky, as every day, from here to there, watching us all back in our little prayers that we send each moment of calm. all fallen angels, the best minds of our generation destroyed by boredom, & mondays keep coming back too, & the world is too large to leave it just sitting out there - i need the road, and the space, and the skies above us unblinded by street lights but just sitting in peace & doom


in the end, we sat on the grass of champ de mars, the sun had just set, the orange-lit eiffel tower was sparkling in the background, and we had some baguette, st marcellin, millefeuille and goudale with us; and i said, life's decent
what are you talking about, he said, life's extraordinary

endlessly



it's hard to do these things alone
just hold on we're going home


as all the shifting lights and the little puffs remind you of what it was & still is & should be, because despite all the twisted eyes under covers on sunday mornings and the restless runs of nights before, the void is still beautiful and whispers promises of new sights to come. in all i don't have lies the potential for news, empty space, das prinzip hoffnung, and home beckons, be it london or amsterdam or hong kong or the stars above, from where war looks tiny through the smoke from our lungs.