I My pages burn in an iron plate on the wooden table in our September hotel. Carpet’s soaked with beer that we spilled and I couldn’t care less about the mess. And you spoil me, dear - Breakfast in bed but we’ve got nothing to cheer for. The smell of smoke is still in my… Continue reading Neon
3 Actually, his name was Isaac. His friends used to call him Nick because they thought Isaac was too Jewish. He remembered this one cold morning when he opened his eyes to look at the wooden ceiling. He liked how he ended up to be. He was alone but he was truly alive. He had… Continue reading existential carousel 3
2 So where were we? Nick. Who lived at the edge of a cliff. Who refused the world and headed to the woods. I don’t know why his name was Nick, neither did he, nor his parents. I am not sure if he had parents. But surely he must have had. For he remembered two… Continue reading existential carousel 2
In any case, for me being published means being in excruciating pain and saying it out loud. Тhat is a form of bravery in my world. It was never about the possible popularity or the attention of my acquaintances, or the questions everyone would start to ask. It was about being able to communicate all the… Continue reading right where
It's not really about the ground or the neutral state of consciousness of the mob. In any case many people spend most of their lives thinking about nothing in particular and talking about the same. Many people spend most of their lives imitating love and ignoring the same. Trading love for attention or need and… Continue reading In any case
Too close to my skin. I'm falling in the borderline. A fitting representation of this soul as one.
It’s truly a stasis. Hold big thoughts and spend them on nothing. The doors are closing now, run to the window. I’ll catch you down, and sell you for what’s finally `clear`.
That’s not me who you see. That’s where I live. It’s not me who walks on those sidewalks, who goes up and down the stairs. It’s not me who crosses the street. It’s not me who looks at you. It’s what I look through. It’s where I live now. That’s where my eternity is put… Continue reading Soul Disconnected
Comfort is the feature of the closed mind. A voice it is, they say. It is not even a whisper anymore, if you ask me. My mind is gambling with `yes` and `no`. Oh, what a performance of doubt. Simply, there are people who are worthy to suffer for. But don't take the short cut,… Continue reading simply
A water that shares too many seas. A sea that shares too many shores. Cruelly, Love.