il deserto rosso

vacant complexities

Sometimes when we are together - and we are always together- I think about all the doors I've ever passed and never opened.

some things are fine

It's a darker place - a Saint's belly, perhaps, a deep sea cave or some inner chamber of a mountain temple - only it's not so dark once you're really there inside. She's like a syrup when you find her, a formless sweetness that reminds you that it is - has always been - about the blood. And it's the hollowness that resonates in your bones; the edges of the echoes that drain the wounds. After a time (and nobody can say how long- perhaps you will lie down or even sleep a while). After a time, something in you fingertips will tell you that you have begun to breathe again.

how do you know?

You are a bird in the hand and some vital education, poetic syntax, words on a wall, a principality by the sea. You are a pistol, a picnic, a hot air balloon and the roaring forties, the bass drum; the five am rain in my spinal chord, the dewey decimal system, a furious trip.

lodestar

Hier soir, notre conversation s'est tournee au sujet de "happy place" - cet endroit dans sa tete auquel on peut retraiter quand on a l'envie d'echapper a la douleur ou a la banalite de la vie reelle.

Et moi, mon 'happy place'? C'est simple - un matelas sur la plancher, nutella, les chansons de Nashville... et toi.

tu me manques (comme toujours)

x x

ars oblivionalis

I wanted to show you the edge of myself. The things I don't believe in but do anyway. The desert that becomes a beach. But now that I am here I have forgotten how they go.

Relax. It's fiction, baby, FICTION. Look it up

sine qua non

Sometimes I want to kick you in the shins and run away