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.

surrounding myself with words is all to keep it tight within, build a castle in my chamber, trying to fill it. a little light bulb inside to spread the tingling sensation into the world, a beacon to tentatively roll into the night and meet the other small streams of struggling light. small hands holding up torches and searching for signs of exotic life in the sky, all in wonder, all alone, all lost in the stars. hopeful electric gestures, and i sit in the middle of it, floating with my best friends around me, between us little fires of stories and never changed dreams, and all that smoke

rushes, here and there, the wind; headrush. the head moving up and around, 360 degrees, and glowing in the beautiful summer sun. shadows darken the eyes, and the future is too far to see, the moments too fast to grasp but heavy with energy. heavy with jazz, the band so encapsulated by music they shout out in painful joy; rare snapshots of feeling. otherwise the coziness of the floor, laying low with eyes turned upwards towards high dreams. the space inbetween so strong in gravity every step feels like a jump, and every drop is a crash, carrying through my bones into a rattling heart. all is energy, all is balance. all is jazz. balance, to get me floating above the ground, dancing through golden glitter that is the summer heat, all in drunk forgetfulness. i am here and there and everywhere at the same time, the world is too small, and i lose myself in the demilitarised spaces inbetween.